


Queer Eye

by for_autumn_i_am



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: (quite literally), Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Attempt at Humor, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Comeplay, Dancer Kylo Ren, Dirty Talk, Disabled Kylo Ren, Fashion Designer Armitage Hux, Finnrey, Hot Mess Armitage Hux, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Non-Penetrative Sex, Pining, Rey is a Skywalker, Switching, Vampire Aesthetics, fashion porn, moody boys, queer eye AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 11:47:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18141782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/pseuds/for_autumn_i_am
Summary: Fashion designer Armitage Hux is met with a unique challenge when he has to makeover an insanely hot dancer, Kylo Ren. Everybody else thinks Kylo is a dick. Armitage wishes said dick was inside of him, but it seems that Kylo is tragically straight—or is he?





	Queer Eye

**Author's Note:**

> The AU takes place is a desolate universe where Netflix’s Queer Eye has never been made, and it’s up to Hux’s group to revive Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. If you’ve never seen a single episode, all you need to know is that it’s a makeover show with queer experts. 
> 
> **Content warning** : For comedic effect, Armitage is under the false assumption that Kylo is straight & dating the human embodiment of the Knights of Ren. Please be assured that this is not actually a multiship fic: the only ship apart from Kylux is Finn/Rey. Please refer to the end notes for **more content warnings** and potential triggers.

Armitage Hux has fucked up his entire life.

He is thirty-four years old; a reasonably respectable fashion designer, who started with a small boutique on Oxford Street, then made it to an international high-end webshop and a nice penthouse in New York. He’s sitting in the back of a G-wagon, impeccably dressed (an all black ensemble with a saffron gabardine car coat to make a statement). He’s what he always wanted to be: the image of taste, edge, and elegance, surrounded with hard-earned luxury.

He’s also surrounded by idiots. 

He’s one of five. He’s one of five people for a revival of the popular reality show _Queer Eye for the Straight Guy._

He wants to die.

His PR manager assured him (vowed, _promised_ ) that it’d be good for the brand. It has become evident he needed to expand the circle of his exclusive clientele. But _this—_ this is going to be a disaster.

He had a contract with First Order; he was supposed to be on _cable_ , to be a judge on _Project Runway_ —a silent observer on reality TV, a recognisable face whose opinion would be the word of God. He was prepared with cutting remarks, ready to stir some controversy, have people google him in mindless rage—but the season got cancelled. First Order was taken over by Resistance Media, and director Amilyn Holdo had an idea.

Her idea was a wagonful of LGBTQIA people taking a roadtrip through the USA to save the straights from themselves. Turn their beige world upside-down, make them a perfect date in a couple of days. There had to be emotions. _Feels_ , as Amilyn put it.

Armitage can’t stop staring at the windshield camera. He’s supposed to pretend it’s not there. He blinks S.O.S.

“Are we rolling?” Dopheld asks. The food and wine expert. He’s bi. He can’t fucking drive.

“Just finishing the script,” Phasma mutters from the passenger's seat. She’s the least of Armitage’s concerns; an old friend who backed up his PR guy and talked him into this mess, who said they were going to do it together for shits and giggles. But she’s an interior designer; she has less to lose, if Armitage is being honest. Coming out as asexual might had been a risk, he has to admit, but can’t muster up much sympathy as Phasma turns to grin at him. “Smile, pretty.”

“Piss off,” Armitage says.

“You do look miserable though,” Amilyn’s voice says through the speakers. “Viewers will wonder what’s the story there. Either be ready to open up to Finn—”

“No way.”

“—or stop sulking. It adds a plotline we don’t have the time to develop. Look nonchalant.”

Armitage wriggles in the seat, careful not to crease his coat, and looks out of the window to watch Georgia pass by. It’s entirely made of cows, malls and churches, like most of this bloody country.

He’d appreciate if Amilyn was less meta, if she didn’t waste their time explaining the reason behind every single executive decision after that argument with producer Poe Dameron. _Cut, action_ ; those are easy to understand. The endless chatter about _making the viewer feel like a friend_ is intolerable.

“Okay, here comes nothing. Are we ready? Mark!”

Everybody bursts into a cheer. Amilyn wants excitement, energy; _a pilot episode, holy shit_ ; Armitage contributes to the general hullabaloo by raising his hand and waving it around in unimpressed agony.

“Fab five!” the team screams as he mouths the words.

“The original show was fighting for tolerance,” Finn recites. “We are fighting for acceptance. Every colour of the rainbow is here.”

“You’d love that, big old pan,” Thanisson says, louder than necessary, and elbows Finn with a grin. Armitage is—protective of him. Awkward, eager and slightly annoying, Thanisson reminds him of his younger self: his ambition is admirable—he won’t settle for being a small-town hairdresser any longer. He’s demi and trans; Armitage can’t imagine what that must’ve been like growing up in Kansas.

“Hell, I’m gonna _inhale_ those Skittles,” Finn says, and demonstrates, making wet sounds as he eats up imaginary candy from his palm, sending Dopheld into a fit of giggles. If it wasn’t for his charisma, Armitage would’ve murdered Finn during their chemistry test.

“So we have Kylo Ren from Atlanta, Georgia,” Phasma reads from the datafile. She sounds animated, making Armitage cringe. It’s not like her at all; but she’s a professional—she can put on a show, and he should at least try to do that as well.

“What kind of name is that,” he scoffs.

“I don’t know, Armitage,” Phasma deadpans, making him flush as Dopheld wheezes.

“That’s a name with a _story_ , gurl, tell us everything,” Finn says, patting her shoulder. Armitage appreciates the attempted return to the script.

“Well, he’s twenty-nine,” Phasma says, “a professional dancer.”

“But is he cute?” Dopheld interjects. Thanisson takes on the role of the laugh track. Armitage rolls his eyes with a sigh, and glances out of the window again. He could make a break for it. 

“He’s rich, if that’s any consolation.” Phasma leafs through the datafile. “He has a mansion, fyi.”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Finn gasps.

Armitage frowns, turning back to the company. “I thought we were supposed to unearth nerds from their basements?” 

“We’ll cut that,” Amilyn’s voice says, resigned. “Keep it rolling, keep it rolling.”

“One, two, three,” Phasma counts herself in. “At least his life is not that great, he had a serious injury.”

“We’ll also cut _that_. Please show some empathy.”

Phasma stares into the camera. “I thought I was supposed to be the bitch?” she asks matter-of-factly.

“No, the bitch is Armitage.”

“ _Excuse_ me,” Armitage hisses.

“Phasma, you’re focused and stern, but sometimes you let us see your soft side.”

“Gotcha,” she says, so cold it makes Armitage shiver. “Poor rich guy had a serious injury.”

Dopheld saves the day by leaning over and peeking into the files. “Shoot, he had a serious injury?”

“Don’t read and drive!” Finn shouts, makes a show of attempting to pull him back. It ends in a delightful tackle, and Armitage can feel Amilyn’s relief wash over them.

“Anywho, our Kylo has a big show coming up,” Phasma says, “his first one since his accident. We gotta help him get ready.”

“Sweet,” Thanisson beams.

“Where is he?” Dopheld wonders, and Armitage almost opens his mouth to remind him that they’re set to meet Kylo in the afternoon segment, then remembers reality TV being a whole thing and shuts up promptly.

“We’ll meet Rey first,” Phasma informs the audience. “She’s Kylo’s cousin and apprentice, lives with him and Kylo’s partner. She nominated him.”

“Yikes, that must sting,” Finn notes as Amilyn calls for a cut. Finn visibly relaxes, flopping back in his seat. He’s much more likeable when he’s not pretending to be a big deal: his real self is disciplined, timid. Armitage gives him a sympathetic pat on his knee. They have to work on their dynamics anyway.

“Rey’s interview will be recorded post-production,” Amilyn informs them, “but she’ll basically say that Kylo is a total diva. Spends too much. Bougie as they come. Your mission is to save him from financial ruin; he’s not just a dancer, but the owner of Dark Side Dance Company, and if he goes down, the studio goes down with him—and that’d put a swift end to Rey’s career.”

“Nice, there’s drama,” Thanisson claps as Armitage stares ahead, confused.

“I seriously thought,” he says, “that we’re fixing messy blokes. Like. I was anticipating socks with flip-flops.”

“You are helping individuals in need of help,” Amilyn clarifies. “Flip-flops or not.”

Right. Armitage thought Amilyn was just being polite in his wording. Admittedly, he skipped a few emails. Even one or two meetings. He didn’t want to be _strongly associated_ with the project; but now they’re shooting, and there’s no escape.

Not even through the window.

* 

“Well, _that’s_ a fucking mansion,” Phasma says, pushing her sunglasses up her forehead. Armitage grunts in flabbergasted agreement.

Kylo’s home looks straight out of _Psycho_. A lush garden surrounds the imposing building. There’s a pool and everything. Gargoyles. A few statues. A bloody greenhouse.

As they walk through the premises with the crew, Armitage starts to suspect that Amilyn might be a genius. This is something _new_. Something subversive. Vaguely socialist in the idea that the working class might not be in need of fixing: it might be the super rich. Not just that—the extravagant kind. Armitage appreciates that he won’t have to talk anybody out of wearing Supreme, but feels at lost what his job is going to be: Kylo has _taste_. It’s eccentric, and decidedly gothic, but not tacky. His home could easily look like Halloween town, but he has an eye for genuine antiques.

The Tico sisters set up the cameras to capture the historic moment of Finn using the solid brass lion knocker. The door opens to comforting darkness; Armitage squints, fully expecting Morticia Addams to make an appearance and introduce herself as Rey.

Except Rey is wearing active gear, and rubs sweat off her forehead as she peeks outside.

“You’re early!” she laughs. “Hi! Come on in!”

Armitage is fairly certain Finn had a line there, but he just stands there, mouth slightly open. Rey wrinkles her nose at him and says something that sounds like an offer of refreshments; Armitage is busy looking her over. Neither leggings nor sports bras count as _clothing_ in his estimate, and he will never understand the profoundly American habit of wearing shoes inside one’s home, much less _sneakers_. Still, he catches the word tea and decides to follow Rey to the end of the world.

 “You’re British?” Phasma asks as they trail her into the chilly house.

“Aye. Grew up in Nevada, though; dad’s American—I was adopted, but Ben will surely remind you of that.” She stops in the middle of the hall, as if unsure what to do, and looks at Amilyn for guidance.

Amilyn is admiring the flight of stairs and the impressive windows, but must sense Rey staring because she says, “I know it’s horrible advice, but just act natural.”

Rey smirks, and gestures around. “Anyway, this is the house we can’t afford.”

“Please don’t ask me to touch it,” Phasma says. “It’s perfect. I swear to God renovating it would be a crime against humanity _and_ architecture.”

“It looks all right.” Rey shrugs, heads to the kitchen. “Wait till you see my room, I basically live in the garage, I need help.”

“Oh, so it’s not really about saving your cousin, is it?” Finn says in a nervous attempt of—flirting? Armitage looks at him. Notices how he’s watching Rey. _Splendid_. That’s just what they needed. He’ll have to remind Finn to conduct himself like a professional.

“Ben cannot be saved, and I learnt that the hard way.”

“That’s the spirit,” Dopheld says brightly.

“That was a good line,” Amilyn notes as she leans against the mahogany counter. “Rose, I want a close-up, Jessika, come on—Dopheld, can you please repeat it? Rey, if it’s not too much trouble, refer to Ben as Kylo, the name-thing will be confusing for the viewers.”

Rey bites her lips. “It’s too much trouble,” she says, and Amilyn looks so damn apologetic, as if she kicked a sick puppy. Armitage is quick to remove himself from the situation by wandering to the French windows that soak the kitchen with morning light. Still, can’t resist eavesdropping.

“What’s the story there?” Finn asks, softly.

“I love Ben but I, uh, cannot bloody stand Kylo. It used to be like, a stage name? But now it’s his entire personality and I hate it. He was—I think he was a good kid. I don’t know. He was always looking out for me, I cannot really—judge him, I always looked up to him.”

“It’s hard when people we respect so much let us down.”

“Yeah—yeah, it’s hard.”

Armitage looks over his shoulder to find Phasma. He makes a face, and she grimaces back. Meanwhile, Rey puts on the kettle: the most British way to deal with problems.

“When his—accident happened,” she says, “he blamed Dad. And I believed him. I believed that Dad was responsible. So I came to Georgia to help him out.”

“That was kind of you.”

“The mistake was in staying. But he convinced me to train with him. Said he’d teach me.”

“He’s a lousy teacher?” Thanisson interjects as he helps himself to a mango from a tray.

“No, he’s—he’s the best dancer I know, he’s just, like. A horrible person.”

“Yet you still want to help him,” Finn says.

“Yeah. That’s family.”

Armitage imagines his father turning on the TV to see his son on bloody Queer Eye; he can see his smug smile—how he’d gloat over Armitage ruining the name he made for himself.

“If you have family issues,” he mutters, addressing Rey, “you should’ve gone to Dr. Phil.”

He steps back from the window. Rey laughs; it wasn’t really a joke. Armitage can feel panic beating in his veins, his vision swimming. His achievements are rendered meaningless with every second he stays on set.

*

He goes to the greenhouse to grab a smoke. His hand trembles as he lights a cigarette, furious at himself. He’s in paradise, in this fragrant garden, and he _hates it_. It’s pathetic. He should just get over himself. There was supposed to be a switch, he should just be able to turn on his best persona, be _charming_ ; he did reasonably well with his pre-show interviews and the intro dance.

It’s just that actually shooting the show feels—irreversible. It’s like putting on a fashion show, when the project is not finished but there’s nothing left to fix. Every mistake is amplified, put into the spotlight as the models march down the catwalk. All he can do is watch his achievement crumble apart.

He hears someone approach, but doesn’t bother to acknowledge their presence. It’s a fine autumn day. He should be allowed to have a mental breakdown in peace.

“Hey! You’re the gay guy,” the intruder says. Armitage glares at him, then does a double-take.

So.

Kylo Ren is hot.

He looks like a high fashion goth—elegant curls, piercings in his ears, a heavy Givenchy neoprene biker jacket and matching leather trousers with vintage Doc Martens. His helmet is under his arm. The size of said arm is...to be considered.

“Armitage Hux,” Armitage says, offering his hand. Kylo scoffs, delighted, shakes on it.

“Here to make me pretty?”

Armitage licks his lips without meaning to. “It remains to be seen.”

Kylo scoffs again, leans against the wall of the greenhouse, supporting his weight on an elbow. He looms over Armitage, taking him in unabashedly. “Thought you were going to be preppy.” He flicks the delicate silver chain decorating Armitage’s collar.

“Thought you were going to be a disaster.”

“Oh, I am. I’m about to ask you for a smoke.”

“Knew you had a reason to play nice,” Armitage teases as he reaches into his coat’s pocket, wondering what the fuck he’s doing. It looks like he’s flirting with his fashion protégé. He shouldn’t, should he? Still, when Kylo makes no move to take the lighter, he lights Kylo's cigarette himself.

“Charmed,” Kylo mumbles around the gold-black fag. Inhales. “Oh, Djarum. Solid choice. What’s it like inside?” He uses the burning end to gesture towards the house. It takes Armitage a moment to follow, fixated on the smoke curling from those thick lips.

“Bonkers,” Armitage says, making Kylo grin. “Thought we were going to pick you up from the studio?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I just came to grab some shit. Hope it’s okay. I mean, I live here.”

“You live here,” Armitage repeats, because it’s still hard to imagine that anyone would, really, outside of a Tim Burton movie.

“Don’t judge, it was my grandfather’s. It’s important for me to...be able to keep it.”

“So that’s why you agreed to do this.”

“I don’t think a TV-show will change me, or my financial vices, sorry. I do it for publicity.” Kylo sucks on the cigarette, looks at Armitage from under heavy lashes. “And fun, of course.”

“Of course.”

There’s a lull. Armitage feels like some helpless creature who got into the vampire’s garden. Kylo’s eyes are hungry, dark; there’s a golden glow to them which makes them look not entirely human. Armitage gets a last take from his cigarette and puts it out, rather hurried.

“We should get back,” he says. “Amilyn will want to meet you.”

“I’m just finishing this,” Kylo says luxuriously. Tastes the smoke with eyes closed. When he looks up again, Armitage is still there. Kylo gives him a sharp smile. “Are we having fun, Armitage?”

“I’m doing this for publicity as well,” Armitage blurts. Kylo makes a considering sound and Armitage wants to run away, as he should have in the first place. He wasn’t supposed to admit that to anyone.

“So, we’re allies, right?”

“Right. I’m going back to the house.”

Kylo grunts in agreement, even though he wasn’t invited, not this time. He pushes himself away from the wall, and that’s when Armitage notices it: the uneven steps, the glint of metal where the boots end and the rolled-up trousers begin.

Kylo has a prosthetic leg.

Fucking Phasma made it sound like he broke his thumb. 

“Did Rey tell you all the worst things about me?” Kylo asks as he leads the way up a slope of hill, slightly staggering.

“Family feuds were briefly mentioned.”

“Fantastic. Little snitch.” His laugh is slightly manic. Armitage looks at him again, wondering if he should offer his arm. Decides against it.

He briefly recalls Phasma mentioning a partner. A woman.

Whatever this encounter was about, the facts are these: Kylo is straight.

*

The kitchen is packed. All eyes are on them when they enter. Armitage pretends to be Kylo’s shadow, blending into the wallpaper, but Amilyn gives him a _look_.

“We were supposed to meet Kylo at Dark Side,” she says, then, “Hi, Kylo, pleasure.”

“We ran into each other,” Armitage grumbles, defensive. Goes to fetch some tea.

Kylo is introducing himself, shaking hands, but he must’ve followed Armitage with his gaze because he says, “Where do dirty cups belong, Rey?”

Armitage looks at the dainty porcelain cups lining up the marble counter, drinks half-abandoned.

“They belong in the dishwasher,” Rey says, with the blunt edge of a recurring argument.

“Why aren’t they there, then?” Kylo says. He occupies the space: the kitchen seems to be filled with him. “Come on,” Kylo goes on, oddly sing-song. “Tell me.”

“Because I’m a desert goblin.”

“Because you’re a desert goblin,” Kylo repeats.

“Whoa, that’s not very nice,” Finn interrupts. “Why would you call her that?”

“It’s a joke, right, Rey?”

“Yeah, you’re hilarious.” Rey brushes past him, bumping a shoulder into his chest. Armitage doesn’t miss how his left eye twitches.

“Maybe we could reschedule and shoot the housetour first,” Amilyn muses. “I want an authentic first reaction from the guys, and seeing that you’re here anyway—”

“Yeah, whatever. I gotta get back by four though.” Kylo looks at Armitage, and says, voice dropped, “You still coming, yeah? Watch us train.”

Armitage nods, ears ringing. Kylo gives him a quick smile, turns back to Amilyn.

“What an asshole,” Finn whispers to Armitage. “What a world-class fucking—”

“He’s our hero,” Armitage says. Downs the tapid tea. Searches for courage.

*

Kylo’s walk-in closet is exquisite. It’s hard to make jokes about it. The fab five is trying: Thanisson is losing his shit over a harness with an off-shoulder cape, Dopheld is having a field-day with Kylo’s collection of skirts, and Phasma is trying on jewelry. Armitage lingers by the door, watches piles and piles of gold and black get thrown to the ground.

“That’s a fortune,” he says.

“It’s Gucci.” Finn holds up a silk jacket, hyperventilating.

“I mean,” Kylo says, “Gucci is pretty mainstream, but I liked the print.”

“Marc Jacobs, Versace, Balenciaga, Acne,” Armitage lists, counting on his fingers. “A _fortune_.”

“They spark joy,” Kylo deadpans.

“I don’t even recognize half of the pile, are those custom made?”

“Nah, I made them.”

Armitage blinks a few times.  “You _made_ them.”

“I’ve got something here you’ll like,” Kylo says. Dopheld has found a midriff corset, is in the midst of pairing it with a wide-brimmed hat. Kylo doesn’t mind them. He gets a greatcoat, holds it up, smiles; brings it to Armitage like a puppy who successfully fetched a stick.

“It’s mine,” Armitage says, his heart beating too fast. He touches the shearling over collar, the double-breasted front, the  lacquered buttons engraved with his logo, an exploding star.

“Still think they aren’t worth the money?” Kylo says softly.

“No, I—” Armitage pulls his hands back. “Piss off.”

“It’s art. You know that. Touch it again. Tell me it’s not worth everything.”

Armitage lets his fingers sink into the collar. Caresses it; his darling, his baby. He remembers designing it. Remembers every single piece. Long nights and sweat, blood, tears.

He wants to tell the story to Kylo, but the camera is rolling.

“I’m not against paying designers their fair share,” he says. “But fashion as an investment is hardly profitable, and this alone with the mortgage—”

The proud spark in Kylo’s eyes dull.

 *

Armitage is in deeper shit than he ever realised. Kylo in clothes was already—a lot, but half-naked, he’s fucking irresistible. He’s only wearing gym pants as he and Rey prepare for a rehearsal at the studio. Armitage uses Phasma’s bag to hide his erection. She’ll never know.

They’re sitting on the floor, and there’s nowhere to look but at Kylo; the mirrors all around the room reflect him back, his wide shoulders, his defined pecs. One leg flesh, the other metal. It’s not stopping him: he moves with a determined, brutish grace.

The show is about Cain and Abel. The first murder. Rey is wearing a binder, hair pulled back. She has surprising strength. She moves with Kylo as if they’re linked together, psychically connected.

Cain lures Abel to a clearing. Gets a sharp-sharp stone. Bids his brother close.

“Jesus,” Thanisson whispers, pale.

“Five, six, seven, down to the back, down to the front, far back, back, side, front, pointe, you’re dead,” Kylo says. Rey as Abel staggers back, fingers curled, teeth gritted and eyes wet. Her chest is heaving; she’s in pain—it’s not just the blood, but betrayal. She fights back, fights against her anger: one, two, down, three, four, she attacks Kylo, claws at his chest with a savage yell.

“ _Ew_ ,” she says. “What is this?”

“What is what,” Kylo asks. Rey is staring at her hands in confusion as the music goes on.

“Wow, Ben, _gross_ , is this _lube_?”

“I’m experimenting with artificial sweat,” Kylo says with an air of hurt dignity. His chest is glistening nicely.

“Eww!” Rey smears her hand over his gym pants.

“It has to look real, like we’ve been fighting,” Kylo says.

“You’ll need to negotiate some boundaries,” Finn advises from the floor.

Kylo squints at him. “You’ll need to shut up and let me do my job.”

“Whoa,” Dopheld gasps.

“You’ll respect my employees,” Amilyn cuts in. “I won’t stand for any kind of—”

“Then you can leave,” Kylo says, points at the exit with the bloody stone.

As the argument unfolds, Armitage is left wondering how the lube tastes. Strawberry? Vanilla? He hardly notices the click of heels, the woman who comes in, even though she turns heads—Donyale Luna reincarnated.

“Hey, what’s the shouting about?” she asks, walks to Kylo. Puts a hand on his naked back. He instantly relaxes.

“Trying to have a fucking rehearsal,” he says, turns to Amilyn again. “I won’t treat you like a fucking professional if you don’t grant me the same—”

“Hey, none of that,” the woman says. Kylo puts his forehead to her shoulder, apologetic, exhausted.

Armitage can feel his heart shatter into a million pieces.

Renielle Knight is tall, gorgeous, buff. Takes no shit. The perfect match for Kylo. Why would he want anything from a fashion designer falling from grace?

Falling, falling, falling.

* 

“Whoa, I hate him,” Finn says. Sounds surprised. Finn rarely hates anybody. Armitage always envied him for that. He himself has always been jealous, envious, petty—

“Yeah, what a prick,” he says. They’re in the Dark Side studio’s garage. They wrapped up for the day. The week ahead seems endless. They’re alone, waiting for the rest of the fab five in fluorescent lights. 

“He has an alarming tendency for abuse,” Finn explains. “If we ignore that or take it lightly, we’re enabling him. If we address it, the fun is gone. I trust Amilyn, but I’m not sure this formula will work.”

“It’s weird,” Armitage agrees. He’s itching to light a cigarette, but knows better than to smoke in a garage. He can’t wait to get back to his hotel. Fuck the early hours tomorrow, he’ll run a bubble bath and smoke half a pack. Wank a little. Rub one out for Kylo Ren, send apologetic vibes towards his girlfriend.  

It’s like he’s summoned him—Kylo enters through the automatic door, looking ready for a goth editorial, the mesh crop top with the black tactical pants and leather jacket doing shit to stop Armitage from coveting his neighbour’s SO.

“Hey,” Kylo says. Why it has to sound sensual, Armitage has no idea. It does though. It really does.

“Hey,” Finn says. “Have you seen Jessika?”

“Who the fuck is Jessika?”

“I better go look for our sound technician Jessika, she needs to...record something” Finn says, jogs away without a hint of any subtlety.

“He hates you,” Armitage tells Kylo. Kylo watches the door slide closed.

“Well, I hate people not minding their own business.”

“Reality TV was a bad idea, then,” Armitage says. Leans against the G-wagon, pretending to be casual. Kylo is standing in his personal space. His scent is overwhelming. The lube was definitely vanilla-flavoured.

“I think something good can still come out of it,” Kylo muses. Armitage wants to comment on his naive optimism, but Kylo adds, without looking at him, “You gonna suck my dick?”

Armitage can only gape. “Beg your—?”

Kylo stares right into his gay soul. “Suck my dick,” he says. “If you wanna. My car’s parked here. Tinted windows.”

Armitage makes an offended sound. Kylo moves closer, traps him against the G-wagon. His hips are flush with Armitage’s; he’s rock hard. “Mm, high maintenance, are you,” he whispers. Leans in to nuzzle a sideburn. “You don’t suck cock in garages, do you? Men like you only suck cock in five-star hotels—want me to take you there? What’s it gonna be? The Whitley, the Ritz? Will you suck my cock if the sheets are Egyptian linen? Gonna fuck you after. Fill that little hole so good. You won’t mind me wasting my own fucking money when I’m drinking Chardonnay from your bellybutton. Gonna get drunk on you.” He licks into his ear, and that does it. Armitage pushes him away.

“What the _fuck_ ,” he spits.

“Sorry, should’ve asked,” Kylo says, steps back and puts up his hands with an awkward grin. Armitage pulls away as well, looks at him with outrage. He’s dizzy with arousal and he wants to throw up.

“What were you _thinking_ ,” he says, voice shrill. Kylo furrows his brows.

 _Cheater_ , Armitage thinks. _Liar_. _Bicurious fucking disaster._

“What’s the matter? No ear stuff?”

“No—stuff!” Armitage sputters. “What the hell, did you think I was going to be your little adventure?”

“I mean—yes? If you were into it? But clearly—”

“It doesn’t count with a man? Was that what you—”

“What? No, I—fuck, I misunderstood, you were looking at me all day—thought you were into me…? No? Shit, this is embarrassing.” Kylo runs a hand through his hair, panicked, and that’s just unfair, that’s just—the last fucking drop, because his hair is luscious and he doesn’t— _look_ like the kind of bloke who was ready to cheat and involve fucking Chardonnay. “Shit, fuck, I’m so sorry, I. I take back everything? Does that, like. Help?”

“Why don’t you ask Dopheld,” Armitage says, voice getting shrill. Here it is: he’s screaming and he’s red in the face. It’s just that the whole thing feels like a cruel prank. “Why don’t you just go around and ask to get your cock sucked by the entire fab five, you know what, _at the same time_ , I’m sure we could manage if we _tried,_ Renielle could watch—”

“What the fuck are you talking about—”

“Don’t play stupid,” Armitage hisses, stepping up to him. He hopes he won’t start crying, or snog Kylo anyway, or do something equally idiotic. “We’ll be working closely this week, so I’ll do you the courtesy of pretending this never happened, but I swear to God if you approach me _ever_ again—”

“I can take no for an answer!” Kylo snaps back, offended. “Jesus!”  

“Good,” Armitage barks, turns away with a dramatic flare of his coat, and heads to the door.

“Sorry!” Kylo shouts after him. Armitage gives him a V-sign as he steps through the threshold, not looking back.  He wishes Kylo would be the kind of hypocritical dick who follows him. He doesn’t. Keeps his distance, and that’s all right, that’s good, that’s _fine_.

He wraps his coat around himself tight.

It’s fine.

*

“I’m done fucking straight guys,” Armitage tells Thanisson over coffee. It tastes horrid. The paper cup is not elevating the experience. This was the only thing they could grab from Dunkin’ Donuts before heading to the crew meeting, but they got there early, and now Armitage is stuck with a pumpkin coolatta and a colleague who might be too young for this conservation. “My straight guy fucking days are behind me,” he clarifies. “I’m finished.”

“Good thing we’re not shooting a porno, then,” Thanisson supplies, ever so cheerful. He cannot be more than what, twenty-three? Twenty-four? A baby. He’s wearing dungarees and a shirt with an avocado print. Armitage opted for a cashmere turtleneck, a teal bomber jacket, gold-rimmed glasses and zero fucks. He’s playing with his necklace as Thanisson slurps his coffee, but of course he’s not getting away with pretending the conversation is finished. “What happened?” Thanisson asks, giving him a careful nudge.

“I emphatically did not fuck a straight guy,” Armitage says; remember to cover his tracks. “A straight guy I happened upon. Recently. Unplanned.”

“Did he initiate?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure he’s straight?”

“Has a girlfriend.”

“Wow. What a dick.”

“Yeah, people keep commenting on that.” Armitage takes a sip from his coffee, makes a face. “You know, my problem is that that’s exactly my type. Fuckboys, jerks. The more rude, the better.”

Thanisson makes a face. “Can’t relate.”

“It invokes something primal in me,” Armitage says darkly.

*

He keeps staring at Finn’s neck during the meeting. He’s staring at Finn’s neck because Finn has a hickey. He can’t believe Finn had the _nerve_ to get entangled with Rey. He can’t believe _Finn’s_ the one hooking up with somebody from work.

It should be him.

Kylo should be up inside him to the second knuckle.

Preferably after he’s broken up with the girlfriend. Like. At least five minutes after that.

Amilyn is talking about the budget, but all he can think about is—Louis Vuittons. Red soles. Of fucking course. Six inches at _least_.  The heels digging into Kylo’s thighs. He’d be wearing them. He’d be wearing Louis Vuittons and diamond bracelets and he’d be getting fingered by Kylo Ren. His hole would be open, wet.

“You can pretend it’s the tightest pussy you ever fucked,” he’d say, “but then you’ll have to eat it, darling.”

Kylo would oblige. Lap at his ass, and he’d be—bad at it, too showy, he’d keep varying the technique instead of focusing on steady pressure. It’d drive Armitage absolutely _mental_. He’d be edging on Kylo’s tongue, bearing down hard, rubbing himself all over Kylo’s face, and Kylo would love it, would be groaning for it. Armitage wouldn’t be able to resist. He’d grab his own dick, start jerking it, and Kylo would look at him so—innocently, like he did not expect a cock to be here, like it wasn’t poking at his face the entire time. Armitage would push it against those plush lips.

“Get it wet,” he’d say, and Kylo would start mouthing at the tip—

“Ground control to Armitage.” Amilyn is waving at him.

 _This has to stop_ , Armitage realizes as he looks down at his notebook and finds it empty. _It’s interfering with the quality of my work_.

“Yes,” he says.

“You volunteer, then?”

“Of course.”

Whatever. What could go wrong.

*

If God exists, he hates Armitage, or just gingers in general, because he finds himself paired up with Thanisson, on the way to have a budget-friendly spa day with Kylo.

As if attacking him in twos would guarantee that he’ll be less of a dick.

But Kylo is perfectly civil.

He’s wearing a Saint Laurent jacket over a black Westwood harp silk dress and Alexander McQueen boots that have _transparent heels_ with rosebuds inside, and he has red lips and smoky eyes, but he’s obliging Thanisson in making DIY face-scrubs and shaving creams. His leg is a steampunkish brass that day, and he has roses in his hair.

It’s almost like he wants to get a message across.

Like he might be ( _might be_ ) just a little bit queer; but one never knows with straight guys these days, metrosexuality being a thing. Also: whether or not Kylo is into cock, he’s still taken. Which means Armitage should stop imagining rolling that dress up, exposing Kylo’s big, hard cock, covering it with luxurious oils.

“How do you like Atlanta?” Kylo asks. They’re sitting on a blanket in his garden; Amilyn assured them it was a cute concept. They got a picnic basket full of cosmetics and everything.

“What?” Armitage scowls at him. Kylo is devastatingly pretty in the natural light, his dark hair radiant and the golden glow back in his eyes.

“I’m making small talk. Lemme know if I shouldn’t.”

“I—” Armitage shakes his head. Turns back to whatever he was doing (a deodorant, apparently, he should stop dissociating, he needs to focus, he needs this job—) “It’s okay.” (—to work out, he’s representing his brand, and all he does is—)

“So?”

“Huh?”

“How do you like Atlanta?”

“It’s lovely.”

(—lust after some bloke who _might_ be attracted to him, but _shouldn’t_ fucking be—)

“How insightful.”

“Sod off.”

“No, sorry I asked. It was terribly rude to ask you a question.”

“So,” Thanisson interrupts, an octave above his normal speaking voice, “nice job, everyone, are we ready for Kylo’s big hair moment?”

“I swear to God,” Armitage snaps, “I swear to God if you touch his hair I’m breaking all of your tiny little fingers—”

“ _Dude_ ,” Thanisson gasps, but Paige behind the camera is cackling. Kylo looks at him curiously, head tilted. Armitage can feel his ears burning.

“What, you don’t think I should get a buzzcut?”

“ _No_ ,” Armitage says with the exact amount of passion Kylo must’ve wanted from him; he grins, slowly, _sadistically_ , runs his fingers through his lush locks.

“I don’t know,” he pouts. “Don’t you think long hair is passé?”

“You have gorgeous hair,” Armitage says, voice raised. He gets to his feet, hands balled into fists. “You know who else has gorgeous hair, Renielle, that’s who, and your offsprings will have it too, they’ll be beautiful and fashion-forward so nobody will mention the size of their nose, and now if you excuse me, I’m needed in places.”  

He tears off the mic and flees.

Kylo is shouting after him, and he sounds confused, and he should probably stay on set, but he can’t, he can’t, he can’t—

*

He’s alone in his hotel room with his tablet, phone on mute. He needs to find his focus. Calming down is not an option. It was always rage that inspired him; desperation, pride, vanity—

The lines he sketches are bolder than ever. The silhouettes are daring. The colours are exploding. It’s the best fucking line he ever dreamt up.

There’s a slight problem though. All his croquis look like Kylo.

He’s chewing on his stylus when there’s a determined knock on his door. He glances at it with resigned worry; entertains the thought that it must be Kylo, breathless, flowers in his disarranged hair. That Kylo ran after him; but what could he possibly say? _You are right. My kids would be too beautiful to handle so I broke up with my girlfriend._

_We can fuck now._

“Come on in,” he calls from the windowsill, locking the tablet’s screen.

Amilyn peeps in, pushes her sunglasses to her forehead and enters the room holding two cups of coffee. A peace offering, maybe, although Armitage thinks he doesn’t deserve to be bribed. If anything, they should be taking stuff away from him. Kick him out of the tasteful ice blue comfort of the hotel room.

“So, being Thannie’s help didn't work out?” Amilyn asks casually, walking up to him. She hands him the coffee.

“Not quite,” Armitage admits. Takes a sip, even though it burns his tongue.

Amilyn makes a sympathetic sound, leans to the window frame.

“It's alright,” she says. “I mean, it’s just the pilot. It's a safe place to fail. We're figuring out the formula as we go. I can already tell you this won’t be the first episode. Probably a mid-season shocker. We’ll see. But I really think we’re doing some good work here—because it’s different, because it’s challenging.”

Armitage scrunches up his nose. “Did you call Poe? You sound like you called Poe.”

“I called Poe when you stormed off,” Amilyn admits, clears her throat. “He assured me that, and I quote, ‘winging it’ was the best call. To let things happen.” She smiles at him bitterly. “What a load of crap, huh? Easier said than done. He's much more laid back than you or I. We’re different. We appreciate structure. We plan ahead. You were out of your depth there, and I put you in that situation. We will negotiate your needs better going forward.”

Armitage nods, looks at the tablet in his lap so he doesn’t have to keep eye-contact with Amilyn. He’s never been cut for pep talks. Amilyn understands that. She’s a good leader. Armitage wishes he had it in him to follow her, to commit to the job; but it’s not the job he’s good at, he wasn’t trained—

“I made some designs,” he says, unlocks the screen. Feels like he’s an undergrad back at Staffordshire when Amilyn leans over to look at it. He’s the apprentice of Rae Fucking _Sloane_ ; he can’t let his talent go to waste.

“You’re incredible,” Amilyn says. It doesn’t sound like a compliment: she’s stating a fact. Armitage nods, resists to ask:  _will the viewers see that?_ “Sorry you have to handle Kylo.”

“I’m handling him quite well.”

Amilyn pulls back, gives him a pointed look that calls Miss Sloane to mind again. “Didn’t seem like you did. I didn’t really get that thing about offsprings and Renielle. Was that a bit?”

“Yeah-yeah-yeah, my—comedic skills may not be that refined.”

“Yeah, you’re more like, unintentionally funny,” Amilyn muses, sips at her coffee. So they’re back at throwing shade. Armitage’s shoulders relax. “I mean, we can salvage anything with good enough editing, a music or sound cue—maybe cicadas—cut to baffled reactions, whatever...I just wish you didn’t involve Renielle in the joke, that was uncalled for.”

“Yeah, she—has enough on her plate as it is,” Armitage says. He’s grabbing the tablet so hard his knuckles whiten, and he still can’t help but add, “A whole beefcake.”

“I’m not following.”

“With a boyfriend like that.”

“Oh, she’s taken?”

Armitage looks at her. He can’t unpack the genuine disappointment that reflects in Amilyn’s eyes, because there are alarms going on in his head, getting louder and louder.

“She is,” he insists, voice too sharp. “You know. She’s dating Kylo?”

“No?”

“She’s his partner.”

“Business partner, yeah.” 

“They’re living together,” Armitage says, desperate, enunciating every single word.

Amilyn is looking at him very strangely. He’s about to break his tablet in half; he’s about to break into pieces himself. Hysterical laughter builds up in his chest, and it bursts out when Amilyn says, “They’re friends. Kylo needs help with his leg.”

He holds up the tablet to cover his face, which is red with laughter and shame, and smacks himself with it. Amilyn grabs his wrist, spills her coffee. “Hey!”

“Is he even into women?” Armitage whines. “He isn’t, is he? He’s totally gay.”

Amilyn nods slowly, something like pity in her eyes, and lets go of Armitage’s arm. He buries his face into his hands, screams, and screams, and screams; then he looks up, face flat.

“I’m fine now,” he says. Sounds composed. “Thank you for your input. I appreciate the correction.”

“I think you should take the rest of the day off,” Amilyn says slowly.

Armitage nods sharply, sniffles. Unlocks the tablet. “I might,” he says.

Gets back to work.

*

The morning is bright, the air is balmy: a beautiful autumn day.  It’s a good excuse to wear something light, like a kimono, for example, so thin it’s almost transparent, floating on the air; and jean shorts, cut with blunt scissors; the same gold-rimmed glasses he had on yesterday, a light shirt, heavy boots. He’s not afraid to use his looks to his benefits.

He’s kind of cold, though.

He makes his way through Kylo’s garden, irritably rubbing his peaked nipples when a deep voice calls from the verandah, “Huh, you’re early.” 

Kylo is sitting in a mahogany wheelchair with a dramatic backrest, wrapped in a Victorian dressing gown. Apparently, Thanisson has given him an undercut, which suits him far too well. It’s not fair that he wakes up imposing and splendid.

Armitage drops his hands, waves hello awkwardly, then makes his way through the hyacinths, heart beating in his throat.

“Sorry to just barge in,” he explains. “I wanted to apologize.”

“Is that so?” Kylo asks slowly.

“I’ve been a dick.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“I’m sorry.”

Kylo hums, pouting. Armitage bites his lips. He knows what needs to be said: the exact nature of the misunderstanding, the assumptions he made. He opens his mouth, but Kylo interrupts by knocking on the chair’s hand rest.

“You like it?”

“It’s… quite something,” Armitage admits.

“It was my grandfather’s,” Kylo says fondly as he caresses the carved wood. His fingers are long and thick, adorned with silver rings. They linger to fondle, discover the texture, the firmness of the handrest.

“Did he die in it?” Armitage blurts, and Kylo laughs. It’s a nice sound. Armitage wants to hear more of it.

“I thought you were done being a dick.”

“I didn’t mean it in a dick way,” Armitage clarifies. Kylo winks at him, which is super distracting, especially since he was just about to get to the point, what he came here for, explain everything. The French window opens just when his lips part, and out comes Rey though the billowing purple curtains, yawning and stretching. She’s wearing an old grey shirt and a pair of briefs. Her legs are hairy.

“Good morning. We were just discussing how daddy dearest murdered grandfather,” Kylo says. Rey gives him an unimpressed look, and nods to Armitage.

“He told you the entire conspiracy yet? It'll win him an Oscar one day.”

“Grandfather died under mysterious circumstances,” Kylo muses, leaning back in the chair. “Only his son was present. They were not on good terms. Wouldn’t you call that suspicious?”

“I resent my father, but I am yet to kill him,” Armitage admits.

“All is not lost that is delayed,” Kylo mutters darkly.

“Must you be this edgy at ass o’clock?” Rey asks as she walks to the grass. She does a few more stretches. “Should’ve stayed in your bloody coffin,” she mutters. “Dad couldn’t hurt a fly.”

“And yet,” Kylo says.

Armitage decides that this is not the moment to bring up the issue of mistaken sexuality. “I should get going,” he announces.

“Run until you can,” Rey says, starting a set of sun salutations.

“Ungrateful child,” Kylo calls, imitating the voice of an old man with disturbing accuracy. “You wouldn’t have that grass without me, only endless planes of sand and scorpions for company.” He turns to Armitage, and says on his normal tone, “You must stay for breakfast. I insist.”

“I have a meeting before shooting.”

“I stopped insisting.” 

Armitage decides to backtrack—maybe he could skip the meeting if he explained to Amilyn that he’s with Kylo—but the French window opens again, and Renielle is right there. Armitage flinches; he still feels some lingering guilt looking at her. Even though she doesn’t give a damn.

“Who’s ready to kill some pain?” she asks, producing an orange bottle of pills from her pyjama’s pockets.

“I’m ready to kill some pain!” Kylo answers, throwing his hands up in the air in mock-enthusiasm. His leg shifts;  his residual thigh is obscured by his dressing gown.

“Do you want to kill some pain?” Renielle asks, pointing the bottle at Armitage. “I mean, it’s prescription, I won’t give you that, but we also have weed.”

“Yes, we do have weed,” Kylo nods eagerly.

“Oh,” Armitage says, looks Kylo over. “You’re high.”

“Yes, I am very high, thank you.”

“Right,” Armitage mutters. Clears his throat, then closes the distance between them, walks up to Kylo’s chair and grabs the handrests as he leans closer. Kylo’s pupils are dilated; his gaze flicks over Armitage’s face as he whispers, “Remember what I said.”

“You said you had regrets,” Kylo says, too loud. There’s a moment there, a moment to grab, to plant a kiss on his lips: but he won’t, not like this—so he just pats Kylo’s face, the friendly slap a bit harder than necessary, then he’s on his way.

One regret to add to the rest.

*

 _There will be time_ , Armitage tells himself when he goes back with the crew to pick up a sombre, sober Kylo, regretfully dressed, and there’s no way to spill his heart in front of the Tico sisters, Jessika, the shitton of assistants, and Amilyn riding shotgun.

 _There will be time_ , he tells himself, taut like a string, sitting in the backseat within Kylo’s reach—and neither of them talk, or look at each other. He starts humming a song he made up for T.S. Eliot.

 _There will be time, there will be time to prepare a face_  
_to meet the faces that you meet;  
_ _There will be time to murder and create_

His fingers are drumming on his knees. It takes him a while to notice that Kylo is matching his rhythm, that it’s not nervous fidgeting. His eyes are fixed on Kylo’s hands and the glint of silver, the rings, his intricate prosthetic leg. Kylo has a thin, ragged sweater on, so long it looks like he’s not wearing anything else, just the boots and the sweater, his hair half-pulled back into a ponytail. _I never thought you could look cute_ , Armitage wants to say. _There will be time_ , he remembers. 

 _Time for you and time for me,_  
_And time yet for a hundred indecisions,_  
_And for a hundred visions and revisions,  
_ _Before the taking of a toast and tea_

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Kylo mutters. Armitage tenses, looks over at him; Kylo is peeping through the window. “You brought me to fucking Goodwill?”

Armitage wants to say something he can’t. The dashcam is on as they pull to a halt.

He settles on, “I _know_.” 

He sounds pained. Rose gets the Canon to capture it in all its hilarious detail. It’ll take some time to set up, so Armitage says in a rush, before they have a good take on it, “People like you have nothing to lose going to thrift stores. You know what you want, what you don’t, you won’t go home with a bagful of trash. You have an _eye_ for fashion. You will find that one piece worth your time among hundreds of worn hoodies. Give it a chance. Please?”

Kylo finally meets his gaze and smiles, stiff, humouring him. He briefly glances at the crew, then back to Armitage.

“Fine,” he says, so softly, so intimately as if they were the only people present, then furrows his brows at Amilyn, acknowledging they aren’t. Armitage hopes that’s what the sulking is about. Goodwill sounded like a fun idea; he thought it’d make Kylo laugh.

He gets out of the car, slightly distracted. The sun is shining just as brightly as in the morning, but a chill is settling in the air. He pulls his black-gold kimono tighter around himself, ducks his head against the onslaught of the wind. Heads for the door blindly. Feels something on his back, briefly. By the time he looks at it, Kylo has pulled back his hand.

*

The rows of clothes stretch into nothingness. The smell of disinfectant is overwhelming. The lights are flickering. Armitage is supposed to be sassy about it, he’s here to entertain, but all he can think about is liminality.

The first fashion show he put on was similar. At a Tesco in 3 a.m. The models were walking around with empty baskets, directionless. Not many people came to see it, but the few who did would never forget it.

He still has no clue what he's doing on Netflix; but maybe it's not about that. Maybe it could be about the things he cares about. The people he cares about.

He could do it for Kylo.

“This suits you,” Kylo says, hands him a pair of cotton-blend jodhpurs.  Armitage feels his throat close up: they’re perfect—they’d be an amazing addition to his closet—the fact that Kylo knows him this well already is agonizing. The fabric speaks as he touches it: _take me home_.

“Don’t cheat, we’re not here to shop for me,” Armitage says. Kylo looks disappointed for a moment, then hurt; Armitage can’t tell which is worse. He hugs the jodphurs to his chest when Kylo turns his back on him to trot down the aisle.  Armitage counts to five, prepared to put the jodphurs back.

He doesn’t.

He can’t.

Kylo snatches something from a hanger without looking at it, and heads to the fitting room, fuming. The crew trails him, Paige’s camera watching Armitage as he makes a decision.

He follows Kylo with the lump still in his throat, fingers clutching the jodphurs. The curtain opens and closes. Kylo is half-naked.

“Can we talk?” Armitage asks, keeping his eyes on Kylo’s face.

“What do you want?” Kylo grunts.

Armitage allows himself to take a deep inhale. The stale smell of laundry detergent turns his stomach. Where to start? What could he possibly—

“I thought you were straight,” he blurts out. “That’s why I said no.”

There: to the point.

Kylo’s eyebrows furrow. He reaches out, cups Armitage’s face—not gently. Makes him turn, look into the mirror, make him look at Kylo in his shiny leather booty shorts.

“Is this how a straight guy looks to you?” he growls. “I dress myself every day with the intention, nay, the objective to look as gay as physically possible—”

Armitage lets out a nervous little chuckle, but Kylo’s grip tightens, then he drops his hand. “Fuck you,” he says softly.

Armitage stands his ground. It takes effort, but he manages to raise a brow, look cool and sceptical. He’s always been good at that: hide where it hurt, hide what he felt.

“Do you want me to go?” he asks.

Kylo chuckles, darkly. “Can’t read a fucking room, can you? Help me take these off.”

Armitage’s gaze drops to the shorts. It’s an invitation. He could say no.

He would be a fool to.

He keeps a straight face as he unlaces them, knuckles brushing over Kylo’s crotch.

“Just so we’re clear,” Kylo says, “you weren’t offended by that offer, then? Because it still stands.”

Armitage peers at him. “This might be an apology,” he whispers, “but I still have boundaries. The crew is just outside.”

“And if they weren’t?”

Armitage drops to his knees wordlessly.

Bows his head as he helps Kylo out of the shorts. He’s wearing a G-string. Armitage remembers it has something to do with dancing. It takes every ounce of willpower not to take that off as well; to dress Kylo instead, without his hands lingering on his pale skin.

Buttoning up the high-waisted pants prove to be a challenge. Kylo is half-hard already. Groans as Armitage palms him.

“Do something about it,” Armitage whispers.

“Can’t help it. You look too good on your knees. So pretty.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Amilyn shouts from outside, trying to be louder than the music. 

“Is that why you put up with it?” Armitage asks, nods towards the curtain. “Put up with this right load of codswallop, with me, because I’m—”

“Because you get it,” Kylo says. Armitage doesn’t know what he means, not until he helps him into a faux fur cheetah coat, until they step outside and he sees Kylo’s glowing face in the mirror.

Fashion is not about clothes.

Fashion is a way to communicate.

Even with all the misunderstandings, they’ve been talking this entire time.

*

They head back home with two bags of clothes. Maybe Armitage had been wrong that thrift stores would make Kylo more selective, but he wouldn’t contest any of Kylo’s choices: each item of clothing has a story to tell.

He helps Kylo take them to the closet. Tells Amilyn and co not to wait for him; that it’s a nice day, and he can just walk back to the hotel. If it’s suspicious, he’s too excited to give a damn.

His stomach is in knots as they cross the threshold, just the two of them. The lights come up in the closet, illuminating rows and rows of designer labels. Kylo puts the new items into the laundry bin with reverence. Treats them with the same respect as all the others.

Armitage watches him, stupidly touched, somehow, his lingering insecurities about not measuring up eased. He was so afraid he’d never make it, even though he always believed he was destined for greatness. He just thought the universe might not get the memo. But Kylo agrees with his choices, the choices they made together, and that’s more validation than anything else, because Kylo fucking matters. Because Kylo—

“I’m still mad,” Kylo says.

“I understand.”

“Like, it’s hard to tell if you’re just a mess, or if you’re playing with me.”

“I’m a mess,” Armitage admits. “I’d like to play with you, please.”

Kylo looks at him across the closet. Armitage is standing by the door, standing tall. He’s freed by the admission. He’s a mess, yes; there’s no point hiding it—Kylo has already noticed. There’s no fooling him. No fooling anybody.

Time to own it.

“What do you want to play?” Kylo says, voice deep. There’s a faint sound from the background, a rhythmic thudding: Phasma’s crew working on Rey’s room. Armitage turns to the narrow window: all clear.

“Whatever you fancy.”

“I get to pick?”

“Indeed.”

Kylo considers him. Looks him up and down. Looks _hungry_. “Can’t trust you,” he says.

“Then don’t.”

“Afraid you’ll chicken out. Like. Withdrawing consent, whatever, that’s okay. But the shit you pulled on me—”

“I thought you had a girlfriend.”

Kylo makes a face at that. “Don’t say ‘girlfriend.’ Kills my boner.”

“You have a boner?”

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you show it to me?” 

Kylo reaches for the laces before Armitage is quite finished with the sentence. Pulls up his long sweater, reaches into his shorts. “Tell me to stop if you—”

“I will, I’m a big boy.”

“Well, big boy, hope you like big cocks.”

Armitage scoffs, but feels the heat in his cheeks, the pressure in his groin. _Everybody boasts their cock is big_ , he wants to say, but the words don’t quite come out at the reveal, get reduced to a throaty moan.

Well.

 _That’s_ something for comparison.

Kylo strokes it lazily, standing at the other side of his fabulous closet, surrounded by riches. “Here’s a thing you should know about me,” he says. “I’m a total fucking attention whore.”

“Duly noted.”

“Keep looking at me. Look at nothing but me.”

As if he could tear his eyes away. Kylo’s cock is thick and long, the wet head slipping through the ring of his bejeweled fingers. He pumps his cock with little finesse, angry but well-practiced.

“Do you often come here to masturbate?” Armitage asks, trying to keep his tone hushed, even. “Look at all you have and have a wank. Do your clothes give you pleasure?”

“Not like this,” Kylo says, breathless. Reaches out to grab the long marble counter running through the middle, displaying bags and accessories. “They are made to be worn.”

“Love to feel them on your skin?” Armitage says softly. Kylo meets his gaze.

“You’re projecting. Strip.”

“You dodged the question,” Armitage notes as he lets the kimono slide down his shoulders. Luxuriates in the caress of it. _You get it_ , Kylo told him. He does, doesn’t he?

“A week ago,” Kylo says, “when I was alone, and keyed-up and whatnot, I came here...Pull up your shirt. That’s it.”

“What did you do?” Armitage asks, displaying his nipples. This part feels natural. He’s done it a hundred times. Sex is easy. Easier when he’s not so fucking head over heels; but he knows how to behave. How to arch his back, how to breathe, what noises to make.

“I jerked off into a Chanel bag,” Kylo says.

Armitage breaks character. A shocked little laugh; a surprising wave of arousal. “Which one?” is all he manages.

“Quilted 2.55.”

“Shit,” Armitage says, reaches for his zipper. This is ridiculous. This is—

“Coco Chanel was a fucking Nazi; she wouldn’t have sold this bag to a Jewish prick like me” Kylo says, pumping his cut cock. “As fate would have it, the label was inherited by a Jewish family—fuck—so I got to support them, I purchased the bag, but I hate what it represents, I just—wanted to leave a mark—I wanted that Nazi chick to turn in her grave—”

“That’s depraved,” Armitage says, “but oddly touching, nevertheless.”

“I jerk off when I’m angry,” Kylo says. “Stress-relief.”

Armitage watches the tight curl of Kylo’s fist as he runs a finger up his own length, cock sticking up to his stomach. He strokes it lightly, almost dreamy. “Comfort,” he says. “It’s comfort for me.”

“No wonder, with a cute little cock like that; wouldn’t want to abuse it too bad.” Kylo yanks at his engorged prick, twists it roughly.

“Perhaps I could teach you,” Armitage muses.

“We should discuss methods,” Kylo grunts, then mutters a litany of _fuck, fuck, fuck_. Armitage steps out of his shorts, walking towards Kylo naked, in nothing but his boots, cock bobbing between his legs.

He’s never done this.

He’s never done anything like this.

He never felt this _needed_.

Kylo gets down to the ground cautiously, looks up at Armitage while he’s jerking himself, looks at him as if he was an angel, descended from Heaven.

“Show me,” he says.

Armitage goes down to his knees as well. Presses his forehead to Kylo’s, gets the sweater out of the way as he puts a palm over his hard cock. Strokes it lightly as Kylo grabs Armitage’s cock, balls and all.

“You’re a mentor after all, aren’t you,” Kylo whispers, squeezing tighter. “You came to make everything better.”

Armitage squeezes his eyes shut, whines; runs his fingers up Kylo’s shaft, tapping softly. Kylo huffs; he must be ticklish. Squeezes Armitage’s cock again. “Alright?” he asks.

“More,” Armitage says. Kylo grins at him, eyes ablaze. Slides his thumb between his buttcheeks. Armitage moans, gets closer—climbs into Kylo’s lap, unashamed, climbs all over him, rubbing his cock into his warm palm, pressing back onto his thumb, fingers working on Kylo’s hot, twitching dick, and there’s a question just at the tip of his tongue, _are you gonna fuck me or what_ , when there’s a loud _bang_ from downstairs. 

Armitage stares at the ground, as if he could see through it. That was close. There are people coming and going. He stills, mind racing through a thousand humiliating scenarios.

“I’ve got you,” Kylo mumbles into his skin. Kisses him. His mouth is hot; the warmth spreads through Armitage, and he resumes rocking against him, careful, breath baited.

“We just have to—keep it down,” he says.

Kylo hums, licks at his chest. “So I shouldn’t try to fuck a sound out of you?” He pushes his thumb back in. Armitage hisses, but bites his tongue.

“Bastard.”

“Bet you would scream if I bit your nipples.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Do you want me to? Do you want me to keep trying?”

Armitage gnaws at his lips, and nods, almost shyly.

“It’s okay,” Kylo says. “Just bite my shoulder if you feel like screaming. I mean, I don’t have lube on me.”

Armitage gasps as he feels the head of Kylo’s cock brush past his hole. He grabs his shoulders in encouragement, presses closer, ruts his cock over Kylo’s sweater as Kylo fucks his arse without thrusting inside.

“This will give you quite the burn,” Kylo warns.

“That’s the best part,” Armitage whispers into his neck. “The soreness.”

“Something to remember lovers by?”

“Mmm, yes.”

“Idiots. How could they leave you?” He grabs a handful of Armitage’s arse, reaches down to guide his cock, rub circles around his hole. Armitage moans, even though he hears steps again, even though it sounds like someone is taking the stairs. It’s the idea of being discovered: he grabs his abandoned cock, yanks at it how Kylo showed him, violently, squeezes and twists as the tip of Kylo’s cock breaches him. He bites into Kylo’s shoulder, as instructed. Comes all over his hand.

“Gorgeous,” Kylo says. “You needed that, yeah? Coming apart like that. It’s alright. I won’t tell anyone. We’ll pretend it’s just a stick up your ass.” He sinks an inch deeper, making Armitage muffle a scream. He clenches around the tip of Kylo’s cock, still shaking with his orgasm. “Tell me when to stop.”

“Not now.”

“Does it hurt?”

“A little.” Armitage licks his lips, looks down at himself. His stomach is soaked with come, and so is Kylo’s sweater. Kylo’s cock is digging into his ass. He’s dizzy with want. Clenches his arse again.

“Gonna milk that cock?” Kylo asks, soft. Armitage nods. Starts to move. Kylo’s hands come to his hips for support. Short, shallow thrusts, and just the tip; that’s the trick.

“Fuck,” Armitage whispers.

“Can I come on your ass?”

“I think that’s only fair.”

“Such a cute ass,” Kylo says, pats at it. “Spankable.”

“Of course you’d be into that,” Armitage mutters into shoulder.

“You don’t get to sass me about my preferences, you thought I was into pussy.” Kylo kneads his jiggling arse, slides just a fraction deeper. Armitage hisses through his teeth; he loves it, he loves it, he loves doing it so much— “Look at you,” Kylo whispers. “All pliant.”

“More,” Armitage says. “I can take it, more—”

Kylo takes that as a challenge. Pulls out, smacks his cock against Armitage’s crack. The sound it makes is straight from a slapstick. Armitage laughs at it, and Kylo grins back at him. There’s movement from outside again. Armitage thinks he can hear Phasma talking.

“Stop fooling around and—”

Kylo smacks his cock against him again.

“Unbelievable,” Armitage mutters.

“For real though, can I spank you? No hard hits.”

“I’ll pass; it makes a distinct sound.” Armitage reaches down to grab Kylo’s dick. He admires how comfortable he is in his skin; he never realised he loved his man _cheeky_. Strokes him like Kylo’s cock was the first he ever touched, like there’s still things to explore, like there’s _wonder_ in sex, besides the need. “Wish I had something like this,” he says.

“On you? In you?”

“In the bedside drawer.”

“That’s— _shit_ —manageable.”

Armitage hums, picks up the pace; keeps rubbing Kylo’s cock over his hole as he pumps him, and once he’s confident in the angle looks at his face. Kylo meets his gaze, lips parted, eyes hooded.

“Beautiful,” Armitage says.  Kylo comes with a deep grunt, and Armitage cannot help but smile. He revels in the feel of his come, sticky and hot, coating his fingers, his arsecheeks; any other day, he’d rush to grab a tissue.

Not today. Not with Kylo.

He slides off his lap to give him some space, but stays sitting near, stays exactly where he wants to be. Kylo is heaving, blinking bedazedly. Reaches for his sweater and yanks it off in a fluid motion. Uses it to mop up Armitage’s drying come.

He smells like a man who just had sex in a sweater. Armitage is intoxicated by it.

“Here,” Kylo says, hands him a _Givenchy_ as if it were a cumrag.

“Ta,” Armitage says. “We should do it again sometime.”

“You mean—”

“I mean you should do me again sometime.”

Kylo narrows his eyes at him. “Wednesday.” 

Armitage tilts his head. “Would tonight be greedy?”

“Wonderfully greedy, but I’m the studio until midnight. My whole week has been rescheduled because of the whatever.” He makes a vague gesture.

“Wednesday, then.” Armitage still feels a bit light-headed with his orgasm, like riding a high. Kylo looks like a dream, and he can _talk to him_ , just sit on the floor and— _be_. He wishes he could time-travel and comfort his high school self, _you will have this one day, just hang in there_. He hands back the sweater to Kylo. “Never wear it again.”

“Yeah, no. Wednesday, huh. We’ll always have tomorrow. Don’t you sometimes hate being a adult? Scheduling a fuck, I swear to god.”

“The sex is good though. Money’s good. I love my job.”

“Do you?”

“Not this job.”

“Well. I hope my dick cheered you up a little.” Kylo gives him a tight little smile. It breaks Armitage’s heart.

“Come here,” he says. Pulls Kylo into an embrace; he melts into it. “Tomorrow,” Armitage says.

“Yeah.”

“Thank you.”

“Anytime. You are—” Kylo swallows back whatever he was going to say. Pats Armitage’s back awkwardly. “You’re alright,” he says.

Armitage notices the flush on his face when Kylo pulls back, but he doesn’t mention it.

There will be time, surely.

*

He might not live until tomorrow, because Phasma is going to murder him.

She doesn’t _know_ , but she suspects something, which is worse.

Armitage hides away in his hotel room, only dares to crawl out when Dopheld offers to grab a drink or two. The hotel’s bar is nice enough, a generic gentlemen’s corner with leather sofas and the smell of cigars lingering in the air. He’s pleasantly sore, and the scotch is good.

“You keep checking your phone,” Dopheld tells him.

Armitage frowns at his Galaxy as if he just noticed it’s there. He locks the screen, unlocks it again. It’s not like Kylo is going to message him. He doesn’t have his number, and Armitage’s social media is handled by an intern. He hopes Kylo won’t send dickpics to the brand.

“It’s addictive,” Armitage says in his defense. Taps at the screen again. Thinks about sharing his drink with Kylo—if he was here, they wouldn’t be sitting by the counter, they’d make good use of one of the sofas, get cuddled up. Maybe Armitage could talk him into playing chess. The boards are all set up, tempting him with memories of having free time, having friends, playing Cluedo and whatever.

He deliberates sending a message from his private profile, fashionista1983, just the hotel’s name with his room number. But they agreed on Wednesday; Kylo is working. Armitage pictures him at the studio, moving to music only he can hear—jumping up, swaying forward as if pulled on a string, reaching, reaching. He has such an expressive face. _Do you miss me_?

“So,” Dopheld says, “I was thinking quesadillas.”

“Uh-huh,” Armitage mutters. Kylo on his knees, bending backwards—the hands are so elegant—his hips pushed up, the bulge of his crotch evident in those bloody leggings—hair splayed out on the floor— _I had him,_ Armitage thinks, _I had him close, I had him inside me, in a way. We shared my body; we shared his._

_(We fumbled in a closet, and it was marvelous.)_

“What do we think of quesadillas?” Dopheld prods him.

“They’re...edible.”

“Do you think Kylo would—”

“Kylo?”

“He can cook.”

“Of course he can,” Armitage mutters darkly, and the fantasy shifts, sunlight in the garden. Kylo by the barbecue. An apron and nothing more.

“I’ve been told he doesn’t have the time though,” Dopheld ponders. “Generally orders takeout. So I was thinking—something quick, surely, but something appetizing, something that’s like, his style. My papi has this amazing almond butter pomegranate quesadilla recipe, which is the _perfect_ post-workout meal, and I’m sure the viewers would also love it.”

“Pomegranates.”

“Yeah, you’re right, too much effort to peel them I guess.”

“No, they’re perfect.”

He’s imagining Kylo by the barbecue, but now he has scarlet droplets rolling down his chin. Swipes them off, looking at Armitage. Licks his fingers. Armitage shifts in his seat, gulps down his scotch.

Forty minutes later he’s back in his hotel room, wanking in the dark on all fours, face buried into the pillow. He suspects he’s slightly drunk. He can taste Kylo’s name on his tongue.

*

_There is fog in the garden. Armitage feels it lap at his ankles. The sinking sun is a sick yellow. It’s afternoon._

_Kylo is sitting on the verandah in his wheelchair. He’s wearing a cloak. Count Dracula through and through._

_“This is my not-quite-sister,” he says, gesturing at Rey standing on his left, all in white. Her hair is loose. Her smile is plastered on. “Not-quite-sister and not-quite-daughter, and I won’t call her my cousin either; she’s my charge. Look to my right.”_

_Armitage obeys. Renielle is wearing black. She stands tall, proud._

_“The woman who lives with me is not my wife,” Kylo says. “The woman who has my back is not my spouse; she is my friend. Who are you then, stranger?”_

_Armitage looks down at himself. He’s entirely naked. His skin is glowing. “Do you keep lovers, my lord?”_

_“Step closer.”_

_Armitage walks through the garden. The grass is wet._

_“Will you prepare that cage in your heart for me?” Armitage asks. Kylo seems farther away. “Will you throw away the key?”_

_From very close, as if whispered into his ears, he hears, “Would you like that?”_

Armitage wakes with a gasp. The sheets are soiled.

*

Armitage is holding onto a cup of coffee and he’s not talking to anybody. He has sunglasses on. Everybody in the G-wagon is cracking jokes as he sits there, locking gazes with the darkness within.

He’s so far gone it’s not even funny.

He doesn’t know if he should have it, these emotions, this—infatuation. If he’ll be allowed to hold onto it. He won’t think about the future, he _can’t_ , but he keeps wondering about the next minute, and the minutes after that, the best decision for every possible future scenario involving Kylo.

It gives him the illusion of control.

As if he had the power to halt his heart, which skips a beat when he spots Kylo in the car park, back pressed to a column and smoking nonchalantly. What could he do to still the battering in his chest when Kylo notices the car, _grins_ , straightens up eagerly? When he’s gorgeous, even in gym clothes; when Armitage just wants to fly into his arms.

“No smoking on camera!” Amilyn shouts as she gets out of the G-wagon.

Armitage stays in place, counts to one, two, three, forcing himself to be still. His fingers twitch over his thighs. He’s wearing the jodphurs. He’s wearing them for Kylo. It’s the only way he knows how to speak honestly, how to communicat _e I cherish yesterday, I think fondly of the time we spend together, I appreciate your company, I think you’re great_ , _I—_ sappy nonsense like that.

He opens the door with calculated casualness. Kylo is looming over Amilyn, deep in discussion, but smiles again when he sees Armitage, waves at him with fingers still holding the cigarette. Armitage clenches his arse reflexively.

“Hello,” he croaks out. Thinks about his odd dream, thinks about what couldn’t have been real, Kylo’s hand on his cock, his pupils blown and lewd mouth slack.

He has an objective.

He has to make it to the front door.

He has to walk past Kylo, walk in a straight line and get to the door with no distraction; with nothing to betray their little secret. He can feel Phasma’s gaze on him, he can hear the cameras rolling, so he just has to—make it, but his joy betrays him.

He’s radiating. It feels like being dragged onto the runway after a show, his models clapping for him, clad in his fantasies, the applause from the audience, bright flashes and the smell of dry ice in the air. It’s the same _rush_ he thought singular.

The door is getting nearer, but he doesn’t feel like he’s walking. He’s soaring.

“Hey, fashion guy,” Kylo calls after him. Armitage turns to him, wordlessly begging, _don’t speak, all will be revealed._ “I had a question about dry-cleaning?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you—?” Kylo beckons him closer. He’s so good, damn. His disinterest as he goes back to his cigarette is convincing enough that Armitage starts to worry, even as Amilyn sighs and leaves.

They’re alone in the car park.

Kylo waits a few seconds after the door has closed after the last person, lets smoke roll down his lips. “Will you greet me properly?” he asks, not looking at Armitage.

“I just don’t want them to—”

“Yeah, me neither. They’re not here.”

Armitage goes to his tiptoes, even though he doesn’t need to. Sinks his hands into his pockets. Kisses Kylo on the corner of his mouth, then licks at his lips. “Hey.”

“That’s more like it,” Kylo says, voice rough and deep. Cradles the back of Armitage’s head, pulls him in deeper. His mouth is bitter, hot. Armitage loses himself into the kiss, letting go of everything—just for a minute, just for some seconds of eternity.

He meeps when Kylo squeezes his ass. “Pants look good on you,” Kylo says, lips still brushing over Armitage’s. “I knew they would.”

“Do you like the shirt?” Armitage arches against him, pressing to him bodily, quite ready to just fucking climb him. Kylo tosses away the burnt cigarette, and before Armitage could tell him to treat the environment better, he palms at Armitage’s chest, fingers brushing over the silk.

“Bet it feels real nice on your nipples,” he says. “Do you like how it rubs against them?” He strokes his thumb over a hardened nub.

“Shit,” Armitage gasps, then collects his senses to say, “Not now.”

“When?”

“I think we should wait until the wrap.”

Kylo makes a considering sound as Armitage very subtly presses a leg between his thighs. Just to...check. Kylo rubs his swelling cock over it. “Where should I take you?” he asks, breathless. “Did I guess right? Are you a luxury slut?”

“No slurs.”

“Are you a luxury gentleman? Can’t stop thinking about your ass, you know. Your ass and cock. Wanna taste you. Taste you everywhere.”

“We can do it in your car, I don’t care.”

“But?” Kylo asks, lingering on the _T_.

“But the Ritz does sound lovely,” Armitage admits, face flushed. Kylo cackles at that, rides his thigh a little harder. The feel of him is exquisite. Armitage can’t wait to have him inside; his fingers curl into fists in his pockets as he tries to behave himself and _not_ get fucked in the middle of a car park.

“Gonna steal you away,” Kylo says, pawing at his chest. “As soon as we’re finished for the day, I’ll go pick you up and carry you to that hotel on my shoulders if I have to. Ask for silk sheets. Only the best for you, if you like how it feels. Spread you out on them. Let them chill your soft skin. Caress the goosebumps, just the tip of my fingers, making you shiver.”

“Detailed as always,” Armitage notes, getting light-headed.

Kylo bucks his hips, gives him a wicked grin. “I didn’t even get to the part where I eat your ass and fuck you raw. I’ll take turns with you, fuck you until you’re dripping with my come, all mine.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Armitage reaches for his fly.

“Guys?” Renielle calls from the door. “Come on, rehearsal’s in five.”

“Coming,” Kylo yells back, then winks at Armitage as he pulls back.

Armitage needs a moment to breathe, head swimming. He feels—good, actually. Like a fucking forbidden fruit. Delicious. Coveted. He just needs to wait until Kylo can take a bite.

Just needs to wait a little longer.

* 

Rey counts back from eight, then bursts into movement. She has a staff with her, the same she carries at the beginning of the show, but her dance is far from the cheerful jumps of her pastoral opening sequence. She’s dead; the victim of the first murder, a memory to haunt her brother. Kylo picks up fragments from her gestures, repeats them with mounting desperation, disgust, regret, fear. Flour is spilled on the floor: Rey, death-pale, is covered in it entirely, and it sticks to Kylo’s heaving chest, his trembling arms, he coughs it up.

“One-two-three-four, da-da-dum-dee, Rey, you’re not giving me face,” Kylo is counting. “Five-six-seven-eight, fucking _pointe_ , don’t-get-sloppy-on the-legs—”

“You’re going too fast,” Rey pants.

“Tone it down a fraction,” Renielle agrees, watching them from the floor with the fab five. Kylo’s gaze meets Armitage’s eyes; he pushes himself harder.

“Da-da-re-ra, sharper, _sharper_ , Abel’s suffering, we’re not-here-to be-pretty, we are tel-ling-a-sto-ry—Less grace, less grace, put your weight into it, ba- _dum-dum_ -dee, I can’t _hear_ it, I can’t hear your feet hit the floor, stomp-stomp-pause-stomp!”

“You’re not helping!”

“I’m telling you what to do!”

“Renielle?” Rey asks as she drops to a split, raises the staff; Kylo holds onto it and falls forward,  relying on Rey to support his weight as he grits his teeth, inches away from her face.

“Do you want me to count?” Renielle asks.

“ _Please_.” Rey’s arms are trembling.

“If you can’t follow _my_ directions, you can pack your bags and go the hell home,” Kylo spits. Leans in harder, making Rey yelp.

“Enough!” Renielle claps. Kylo breaks position, steps back with a half-muttered curse. “Let’s take five, shall we?”

“The fucking show’s in a week!” Kylo yells as he goes to grab his water. “She’s not ready.”

“I’m right here,” Rey says, voice breaking. “You can talk to _me_.”

“You can’t talk for five minutes.” Renielle turns to the fab five. “Sorry. Welcome to the ‘biz.”

“Is it always like this?” Thanisson asks, sounding deeply disturbed.

Armitage opens his mouth, then closes it. He’d side with Kylo. He’d tell Rey to be a bloody pro. It’s best to hold his tongue. He’s watching Kylo chug down the water. He looks like a mess.

Armitage wishes he could talk to him, tell him it’s gonna be okay. That Rey is just currently second-guessing every second decision she’s made in her life, but it’s going to be alright. Advise him to give her some space. Comfort him; rub circles onto his back, massage his shaking shoulders. He wants Kylo to rely on him. It’s a dangerous wish.

“I think you were great,” Finn says as Rey takes her place beside him. As if they didn’t have to hide anything.

“My form is perfect,” Rey says, dismissive. “I struggle with—expression, I think. Ben’s very method.”

“What’s Abel’s story? The thing you’re trying to tell?”

“He’s become Cain’s conscience. He thought he’d be rid of him, but it’s worse than ever, his dead brother is everywhere. He can’t deny the truth that is his family.”

“That’s Cain’s story,” Finn says gently. “What’s yours? Your place can’t just be in _his_ narrative.”

Something breaks in Rey. Her lips twitch, her shoulders sag. Finn places a hand over her back. Rubs the fucking circles Armitage can’t—

“The way I see it,” Finn says, “how you dance, what it reminds me of is Dylan Thomas—y’know, ‘don’t go gentle into that good night—’”

“‘Rage, rage against the dying of the light,’” Rey finishes. She looks—sober. Her gaze finds Kylo, hopping in place. Armitage misses whatever passes between the lovebirds, because a hopping Kylo is very distracting.

Maybe they could do the same. Not give a shit. Maybe he could, he should walk up to him, in front of everybody. Tell him, _I’ll be looking at nobody but you. You’ll have my full attention_. Press a kiss to his lips. Be in his corner, root for him—

He feels like a sack of cowardly potatoes when he stays in place.

“Back to work!” Renielle calls. Kylo is keyed up, grimacing as he takes position again. Rubs his hips, makes a face. Briefly looks at Armitage.

 _I see you,_ Armitage thinks. _I see you, I see you, show me—_

“From the _rond de jambe_ ,” Kylo announces, gestures at Renielle. She starts the music again.

“One-two-three-four, five-six-seven-eight—”

Armitage’s heart is breathing with the rhythm. Rey stands still, counting herself in, muttering _rage, rage against_ —then throws herself into the dance with a savage yell. Kylo grins, grabs the staff and twists it—they both fly into a backflip.

“Whoa!” Finn shouts. “Come through, Rey!”

She gives him a grin, then she’s back being Abel in a blink: her smile just a bit too sharp. Armitage deliberates cheering; but Kylo is a trained professional—he’s _working—_ he has no need or use of soccer mum attitude, for sure.

They lock gazes for a moment. Kylo’s eyes are welled up. He’s Cain, now. He falls to his knees, heavy, the flour flying and bleaching his guilt—but he cannot be rid of it. He’s curled up on the floor, but Rey just uses his back for leverage, does a somersault, so well-executed as if she was mocking him. Lands on the ground, assumes his position, mirroring his pain. Kylo is hiding his face, but Rey hits the ground with both fists, _look at me, look at me,_ one, two, three, four, then grabs his hair and pulls him up to dance.

“Jesus have mercy,” Dopheld gasps.

“Old Testament; no Jesus yet,” Phasma says, colourless.

Rey pushes Kylo away, kicks towards him as she screams soundlessly. Kylo slips, staggers, takes the kicks, the hits, the punches, swaying on his legs—but when Rey aims for his skull with the staff, he grabs it, looks down at her from beyond his hair.

 _I see you,_ Armitage thinks. _I saw you, I’ll tell you you were brilliant, it chilled my blood, I’ll tell you in private, cigarettes after sex, I’ll sing your praise in a language only we understand—_

Kylo holds onto the staff, jumps—Rey lifts him up—he’s boundless, for a victorious moment—then something goes terribly wrong.

There’s a heavy _thud_.

Kylo is on the floor.

He screams.

“So intense,” Finn says, appreciative, but Armitage is on his feet. Renielle has stopped counting, and Rey looks stricken, but she just stands there, she just fucking stands there—

“Kylo!” Armitage yells and rushes towards him.

There’s no blood. Kylo is breathing, but he’s not even trying to get up, and Armitage knows him well enough to—

“Call an ambulance!” Renielle yells.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Rey says, “Are you okay, Ben, talk to me—”

“ _Kylo_ ,” Armitage says. Gets down to his knees, the flour flying up in white puffs.

“Camera’s off, everybody remain calm!” Amilyn is shouting. Armitage is vaguely aware that more people come running, Finn and Thanisson are standing around them, and so is Rey. Armitage goes down to his stomach so he’s at eye-level with Kylo.

Kylo looks at him. He looks ashamed.

“Hi,” Armitage says, aiming for a normal voice. It wavers, but it will do. Both of them are on the floor.

“Can’t move my leg,” Kylo says. His eyes are round, the pupils narrow.

“You don’t have to. You better not, until the ambulance gets here, in fact.”

Kylo chuckles at that. “I swear I can dance.”

“I know. I saw you.”

“A fucking jump.”

“I saw you.”

Armitage reaches out, tucks Kylo’s hair back behind his ear, with everybody around them watching, yelling, arguing. He hardly registers it. Kylo’s ears are comically big. He doesn’t know how he never noticed them. They’re adorable. He rests his hand on Kylo’s cheek.

“Was I any good?” Kylo asks, voice getting thin.

“You were a wonder.”

“That’s what matters.”

Kylo’s lips tremble, but he’s keeping it together. Armitage just needs him to keep it together.

“Ever the perfectionist,” he says, and adds, “even in death.”

The joke falls flat, but Kylo laughs. Armitage still likes that sound. He likes it very much.

“I’m just glad you appreciate it,” Kylo says. “I was dancing just for you, you know.”

“I know,” he replies.

Kylo squeezes his eyes shut, nods sharply. Armitage keeps caressing his face lazily, as if he can’t feel Kylo’s muscles twitch, doesn’t see how his face contorts in pain.

“You were so good,” he says. “So good for me, Kylo.”

*

The sun is setting over Atlanta. Armitage is sitting on the hotel’s balcony, chainsmoking. There’s nothing more he can do than light a cigarette and then the next, stare into the settling darkness, and hope. It’s nothing _serious_ , he knows. Still: it hurts Kylo; it’s humiliating for him; Armitage knows all too well what’s it like to carry a bruised soul around.

His place is by Kylo’s side, but he can’t be there. The last thing they heard was that he got admitted to Emory Clinic, and that’s it. Amilyn hasn’t gotten off her phone, but Armitage is not sure whom she’s talking to. He doesn’t want to know.

He’s trying to think of the dance, not the accident. He feels like he owes it to Kylo: the triumph of it shouldn’t get forgotten just because it didn’t end well. He’ll have to ask for a copy from Paige or Rose. Watch it on repeat. Pause just before the fall. Rewind again.

He sees a car pulling up. Thinks nothing of it until the door opens and Rey and Renielle exit. He jumps up, but Kylo is not with them. They head into the hotel.

“Fuck,” he says.

He should collect himself. Finish the cigarette. Not be—a bother, but he must know if Kylo’s well. Finds himself walking back to his room, into the hallway, taking the lift, cigarette still burning. He catches Renielle in the hall, talking with Rose.

“Hey,” he calls, uncertain. Renielle looks at him, but doesn’t greet him.

“Rey’s here,” Rose tells him. “She’s just talking with Amilyn.”

“Is he—”

“He’s okay,” Renielle says. “Considering.” She passes Rose, squeezing her shoulder. “Walk with me,” she addresses Armitage. He falls into step, although he can hardly keep up with her. Her steps are determined, quick even in five inch heels; her face doesn’t betray anything. She leads them to the hotel’s garden: a small terrace, abandoned tables. The air is chilly. No guests are sitting around.

“What is it?” Armitage asks. He feels like there’s lead in his heart. Renielle scowls at him as she hands him a scrap of paper.

“His number.”

“What?”

“He wouldn’t shut up about you. Asked me to deliver it.”

Armitage unfolds the paper, disbelieving. _Call me_. Kylo’s handwriting is too damn pretty. He closes his fist around the paper.

“And?”

“Huh?”

“What’s the matter?”

Renielle makes a face again. “I have an entire dance studio to run with Kylo indisposed. I took over most of his classes because of the show, and now this.”

“He’s okay,” Armitage says, says it like a spell.

“He’ll spend the night at the clinic, but then it’s just home rest, ice packages, physio, and a shitton of painkillers.”

“But the show? Cain and Abel.”

Renielle holds up her hand. Takes a moment. “Don’t remind me,” she says. “He better be resting the hell out of himself. It’s our first choreo to debut. Don’t wear him out too much when you visit, is what I’m saying. I need that nerd on the dancefloor pronto.”

“We both do,” Armitage says. Renielle smiles at him; she looks tired.

“Take care,” she says.

Armitage wants to say something stupid, like _I’m sorry I was jealous of your friendship_ or I _no longer dislike you_ , so he just shuts up and waves with his left, because he’s holding the piece of paper to his chest.

Kylo and him have been on borrowed time since the beginning.

They can still make the most of it.

*

“Come again?” Armitage says.

“We’re going to Florida,” Amilyn says.

“To _Florida_ ,” Finn repeats with panicked disdain.

Armitage is going to scream.

They’re in the hotel’s meeting room, the entire crew plus Rey, who’s holding Finn’s hand under the table.

“Listen,” Amilyn says. “The last thing Kylo needs right now is a crew up his ass.”

Phasma gives a _look_ to Armitage.

“We must reschedule to allow him an undisturbed recovery,”  Amilyn goes on. “Our next hero graciously agreed to push the schedule around a little, so we’re driving straight to him.”

“Even though he lives in Florida,” Finn chimes in.

“Even though he lives in Florida,” Amilyn repeats.

“I just don’t get why we have to drop everything and leave,” Armitage says. “It doesn’t make sense. Phasma—”

“Phasma will stay to finish up the renovations, and will come join us. We will all come back to watch Kylo and Rey’s show, which can hopefully still happen. Finn and Dopheld will have their segments shot when—”

Armitage shakes his head.

“I understand the effects of personal attachment,” Amilyn tries again.

“No. Don’t. Don’t bring that—”

“Exactly. We shouldn’t bring that into this, and I think you agree. You know that Finn is also—”

Armitage is not listening. To hell with Finn and his cutesy romance. It’s not Rey who’s injured, and he can’t help but feel that if she were, they’d have made a different decision. Kylo doesn’t need the courtesy extended to him. He wouldn’t want them to leave him to his misery. It’s not fair; it’s not okay; but it’s happening.

Armitage will do the same thing he always did: be a professional, do as he’s told. Put on a brave face, pay his dues.

But this time, he won’t have to do it alone.

* 

“Hello? This is Armitage Hux—”

“It’s good to hear your voice,” Kylo says.

Armitage takes a moment to accept the compliment, to not be a sarcastic prick about it. Georgia is passing by the car’s window. They’re running out of time, and space.

“It’s good to hear yours too,” he says. “I’m not alone, though.”

He ignores Thanisson wiggling his eyebrows at him.

“Yeah, I got your text.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a beat there. Armitage digs his fingers into the flesh of his palms.

“How,” he tries. “How—uh. Are you fed up with people asking how are you?”

Kylo chuckles. It’s all that matters.

“Am I ever? No worries though. I’m gonna walk. Gonna dance—”

“Just—don’t push yourself? Please.”

 “You neither,” Kylo says, softly. Armitage’s heart clenches. He never considered it. He never considered that the work he’s doing— “Have you ever been to Florida?”

“Huh? Ah, no. No, I don’t think so.”

“You’d remember. You’re not ready. You’ll have to tell me everything.”

“I will.”

 _Promise, promise, promise_.

* 

“Is it too late?”

“No, I’m playing Dragon Age. How are you doing?”

“Knackered.”

“Aw, poor you. Long trip?”

“Took forever. Feels good to be alone. It’s good to talk to you—”

*

“So, what are you wearing?”

“Kylo.”

“Just _asking_.”

“I just woke up.”

“So? Nothing?”

“Well.”

“Are you shitting me? Oh, you’re a dream. Do you have a minute?”

“I’m not twenty anymore. It’s gonna take about ten.”

“Fuck yes. Lemme just—shitting _hell_!”

“What?”

“Fucking cold compress. Can’t pull my pants down—okay, now we talking.”

“I’m listening.”

 *

“See you worship it. Pink lips tight around the tip. The cute little licks before you’d start sucking—”

“Fuck, Kylo, I’m—”

“Are you close?”

“I’m at a _gas station_.”

“Go to the men’s room.”

“I haven’t paid for my crisps yet—”

“Aw, you call them crisps.”

“Of course, that’s their bloody _name_.”

“You got the munchies?”

“Fuck off.”

“No, it’s cute.”

“Everybody eats snacks, it’s not—uh. Fine. Whatever. Thank you?”

“Mmm. What’s your favourite flavour?”

“Salt. Don’t laugh.”

“I can’t believe you.”

“Okay, headed to the men’s room.”

“Wish I was there. Like, in the flesh.”

“Wish _I_ was in Georgia.  You were right about Florida. And—”

“Annnd?”

“I miss you, twit. Quite a lot.”

“Miss you too, dipshit. Open the door. I’ll be right there in the first stall. What do you want me to do?”

“Hold me. Kiss. Don’t fucking let go of me.”

*

“I’m going to murder Edrison Peavey in his _sleep_.”

“That bad, huh?”

“I’m talking camo cargo pants. I’m talking denim with denim. Fanny packs. He _collects_ them.”

“Baseball hat?”

“You bet.”

“Red?”

“Yeah.”

“ _Yikes_.”

“Agreed.”

“If you do murder him, you could come back sooner though.”

“That’s actually a very good point.”

“I’d offer to help bury the body, but I’m still bound to the couch.”

“That is...a mental image.”

“Kinky. You into that?”

“I don’t mind it.” 

“What are you into?”

“Murdering old dudes who are waving at me to hang up. _I’m on a break, you muppet!_ ”

*

“So. Amilyn thinks I shouldn’t call our hero a muppet.”

“I don’t even know if that’s an insult.”

“It is. It’s devastating.”

“Did you get a lecture?”

“Yeah. I mean—”

“Yes?”

“There was this bit about how I left my mind in Atlanta. She’s half-right about that. I left my heart.”

 *

“Physio is hell. Just so you know what waits for us in the afterlife, Armie.”

“Excuse _me_ , I was raised Christian. Altar boy _par excellence_. A boy scout as well.”

“You’re just telling me you’re gay.”

“Well. When God finds out, I’m going to hell. To physio.”

“See? Told you. Anyway. I can move. So there’s that.” 

“Mazel tov! How are the rehearsals?”

“Rey, uh, had a suggestion about the choreo?”

“Oh? Was it a good suggestion?”

“Actually, yeah? Pretty good? She thinks I should have a staff as well. I could lean on it and—it makes sense, thematically. Like, the connection between Abel and Cain would be even more evident, how they mirror each other, light and darkness.”

“That’s a pretty fucking neat idea.”

“Right? I mean, it means we must...pretty much start from zero and learn a new choreo but? I think we can pull it off. Like. I underestimated her, I think. And was—more _strict_ than _strictly_ necessary.”

“Finn would appreciate that realization, pun notwithstanding.”

“Do you think I—?”

“I think you should ask her?”

“Yeah, I—we never really talk anymore.”

“You should. If you want to. Give it a go.”

“Yeah, I—I think I just needed to hear that.”

*

“Can’t wait to be back.”

“When will that be? You still coming to the show, right?”

“Betcha. I thought we might have an extra day, but convincing bloody Peavey to get rid of his sideburns is proving to be...challenging.”

“Hypocrite. You have sideburns too.”

“Well, duh, I can pull them off.”

“I love your hair. Been jerking off to some pictures.”

“Of ginger twinks?”

“Of you. I hope that’s okay. There’s one where you’re getting out of a car—”

“Oh shit, did I do a nipslip?”

“No, I love your eyes on it. The way the light hits them, I haven’t figured out the colour yet. The cheekbones are cute too. You’re so fucking cute.”

“Most people think I’m intimidating.”

“I’m intimidated by how cute you are.”

“Didn’t stop you from talking yourself into my pants.”

“Conquer your fears, all that.”

“Consider me conquered. Also, thank you for your generous aversion to shirts.”

“Oh?”

“Google appreciates your career. So do I, on lonely nights.”

“You could’ve just ask for a picture, nerd.”

“Pot, kettle.” 

“But there’s a thrill in it, yeah? Seeing you through someone else’s eyes, a photographer who has no idea—Makes me feel like I’ve known you for a while, and it’s just amazing, like, ‘ _that’s Armitage Hux,’_ how I—get to see the _you_ I wish I’ve met earlier. Is that creepy?”

“That is—that is _precisely_ what I was thinking looking at your photos? That, and rimming. Please never attempt a beard again, but—even then I would’ve—would have—because you’re perfect, and I would’ve wanted to date you. I mean to say, there’s so much time we spent apart, and it was wasted, because we didn’t know each other, we hadn’t met yet—Kylo, shit.” 

“That’s it. That’s exactly it. Would you still want to—?”

“Yes.”

“Because uh, y’know. I love you back.”

* 

It’s raining in Atlanta. Armitage regrets wearing white trousers and a short-sleeved shirt, but only slightly. Kylo will appreciate how his ass looks in the outfit, he’ll like the shirt’s geometric print, notice the details (the belt, the watch, the socks, the shoes); Armitage will be _seen_. He can’t stay still, keeps squirming in his seat as they near the Georgia International Convention Center, its imposing white bulk washed into a trembling blob by the rain. Armitage is drinking the landscape in: _this is where Kylo lives_. Every tree passing them is dear to him, because they belong to Kylo, in a way.

He knows he’s being absurd. He never allowed himself to act like this before. He liked people, for sure, very much so, but this nonsense is new.

A voice in his head says that it’ll be over in a blink. He can’t be sure Kylo would want a long-distance relationship; he doesn’t even know if he’s open to dating. Still: all the more reason not to hold back. It can soon end, yes; so he should give it his everything, give his best. Give it everything he has.

He takes a deep breath as he gets out of the car. The wet air smells of pine trees. He grew up in London, but the scent is still familiar: like something he could remember, if his formative years were different. He feels like there are paths to take, in the past and the future. He marches ahead, just vaguely aware of the remainder of the Fab Five tagging behind.

They are ushered through a VIP door, but it cannot save them from the madness. The hallways are packed with artists, journalists, audience-members, the press. Armitage underestimated the magnitude of the event: Kylo always talked about it as if it was _his_ show—but every dancing talent from the region seems to be present. It’s a two-day festival, a glamorous spectacle. Huge, round lights swim above as Armitage is led through corridor after corridor, all clad in a purple-yellow carpet that reminds him of airports. His heart is in his throat. Behind one of the doors, there’ll be Kylo—he’ll see him again soon. 

When their guide stops to scan her card, Armitage realises he’s not ready. His heart is too full. It will spill. He won’t be able to contain the joy, the thrill. The door opens, reveals a dressing room larger than Armitage pictured, and with more people than he’s comfortable with, but he spots Kylo immediately. There: chatting with Rey while sitting at a makeup station in a robe, his forehead and eyes painted with kohl, hair loose. Amilyn greets them cheerfully. Armitage starts running; so does Finn.

Kylo’s eyes are warm, his smile is bright. He open his legs, his arms: Armitage all but falls into his embrace, inhales his scent. Sobs, which is embarrassing. Kylo squeezes his hips with his knees, one flesh and one metal.

“Hey baby,” he whispers into his ears.

“Hey,” Armitage manages. Ignores the incoherent babble of Finn and Rey, holds on tighter.

“I’m sorry everybody, hug it out, we start rolling in one,” Amilyn warns. Armitage doesn’t give a damn: clutches Kylo’s robe, kisses his shoulder, buries his face in the crook of his neck.

“Thank you for coming,” Kylo says.

“Of course I came.”

“No, I—it means a lot to me, is what I’m saying. You being here.”

“On my mark,” Amilyn says.

Armitage is not ready to let go, but he has to. He steps back. Kylo reaches after him, touching his shoulder briefly and giving him a significant look.

“After,” he says.

“After,” Armitage nods.

“And action!” Amilyn shouts. Finn disentangles from Rey, offers her his hand.

“Hey girl, what’s up?”

Rey gives him the most awkward high-five in human history. “Not much, my dude.”

Armitage and Kylo exchange a glance. He missed it: missed feeling like they’re the only two people in the room, whatever is going on; that they’re inside their own pocket universe, where nothing else matters besides them. He resents the distance between them. Standing within reach but not touching feels like a unique sort of torture. Still: it’s like he can feel Kylo’s very soul reaching for him.

“‘Not much’ is about to change,” Finn says theatrically. “We have a surprise, you see.”

“Oh, you do?” Rey asks. Her acting is shit, but there’s something genuine in the way she rubs her neck, uncertain. She knows what will happen next. She’s just not sure she’s ready for it yet. Kylo tenses, and Armitage can hardly resist to offer his hand, interlace their fingers.

The door opens again. A man in a tattered blue sweater walks in with a bouquet; it would be fairly anticlimactic, if it wasn’t ballet legend Luke Fucking Himmel.

Rey gets up from the desk, covers her face and squeals. Her surprise looks real; maybe it is.

“You came,” she says. “You’re _actually_ here, you _came—_ ”

Armitage looks at Kylo, Rey, back to Luke. Starts to suspect it’s a family of empty rows, missed rehearsals, long waits until someone bothers to pick you up. Being a champion and still feeling like a disappointment, because the people who matter don’t care.

He knows that feeling well.

“I should’ve come more often,” Luke says. “I’m so sorry; I’m here now, I’m—here.” He holds up the miserable bouquet of daisies. They look hand-picked, held together by a string. Strange: Armitage is fairly certain Amilyn arranged for roses and alstroemeria.

“ _Dad_ ,” Rey whimpers, face still covered. She sounds like a little girl. She’s a frontliner at a major dance convention, and she’s just—too young to be here, to have all these expectations and responsibilities.

“I’m sorry for going about it like this,” Luke says, “but I wanted to come to cheer you on. I know you’ll be amazing.”

Rey drops her hand to take the flowers. Her lips tremble, whole face scrunches up. Finn puts a hand on her shoulder, steadies her as she takes a heaving breath.

“I’ll try,” is all she manages.

“There is no _try_ ,” Luke says with a faint smile. “What are you? Come on. Tell me.”

“I’m a winner,” Rey hiccups, reciting it like an old mantra. Luke smiles at her, pulls her in to press a kiss to her forehead.

“Attagirl,” he says. Rey clings to his neck. Luke glances up over her shoulder, looks at Kylo. “Hey, kid.”

“Hey,” Kylo says coolly.

“Good luck to you too.”

“You should’ve said break a leg,” Kylo deadpans. In the background, Dopheld gasps.

“Missed my chance,” Luke fires back. Rubs Rey’s back. “Take care of her, yeah?”

Kylo rolls his eyes. “Please leave me out of your big sappy reunion, thanks.”

“Oh, not a chance,” Luke says. The door opens again as a smile spreads slowly on his face. Kylo looks confused, eyebrows knit, then he glances up and gapes.

“Oh shit,” Thanisson whispers. “Is that Senator Organa?”

“Whatever,” Phasma says, “but that’s my fucking dealer with her.”

Armitage glares at Kylo’s parents, and hopes he’ll never be introduced.

*

The opening ceremony is in full swing, and there are about twenty dancers on stage. Armitage is not looking at any of them: he’s texting Kylo, who appears to have barricaded himself into the restroom.

“...her favourite flowers,” Finn whispers to Amilyn. “He remembered that.”

“If you keep whispering, they’ll kick us out of the VIP booth,” Paige says.

 **Kylo <3:** i’d say im changing my name and moving states but i already DID THAT

 **My phone:** Are they that horrible?

 **Kylo <3:** YES

 **Kylo <3:** No.

 **Kylo <3:** IT’S COMPLICATED

 **Kylo <3:** distract me send a dickpic

 **My phone:** No.

 **Kylo <3:** :(

 **My phone:** Happy to oblige with other sorts of reasonable distraction.

 **Kylo <3:** whats it like out there

 **My phone:** Quite sensational. I think the prima ballerina is performing a solo, but it doesn’t seem to stop everyone else from attempting to fly.

 **My phone:** I think I hadn’t realized how bold is it to put on a hybrid dance duet with such a heavy theme as yours; I’m glad I can appreciate it in its context.

 **Kylo <3:** brave or stupid we’ll see

 **Kylo <3:** gotta go ill b on stage in 15

 **Kylo <3:** also dad took the next stall nd he managed to climb the tank? hes looking at me like that ceiling cat meme its frightening

 **My phone:** Jeepers. Why didn’t your parents just drop by to visit if they miss you so much? Why try to reconnect through a reality TV show?

 **Kylo <3:** tbh last time my dad trid to visit i shot at him

 **My phone:** You shot at him?

 **My phone:** Kylo?

 **My phone:** Oh my god, Kylo.

* 

Kylo Ren is a mess. He’s an irredeemable jerk. Armitage realises that. He knows he has baggage. That he’s not a sensible choice for a partner.

That’s why they make such a good pair.

He understands it best when he watches Kylo dance. The force of his movements; the power he has, adamant; the same uncompromising talent, dynamism, _ability_ Armitage always had inside of him, but which found a different form of expression, in cut and fabric instead of rhythm.

He never cared much for dance, can’t be bothered with the other performers, but _Kylo_ , he just _gets_. He’s prone to be irritated by the performing arts, feels like he’s expected to decipher a code without so much as a guide, and thus failure and embarrassment is imminent,  but Kylo's movements make sense.

Here: he bends his arm—the gesture comes from his heart. The thud of the staff he uses like a crutch. The grace of the fight against the weight of his own body, struggling against gravity, impossibilities, always conquering but never satisfied with victory. The story he’s telling: Cain falling to his knees, tainted by the white ashes of his brother, fighting his conscience as he curls up, hides his face in his knees. He rocks on his ankles, grabs his hair and paints it white, the flour suffocating him like a deadly cloud. He looks up, eyes too wide, wet with tears.

_Save me._

_Save me._

_Save me, save me from my sin._

He sobs, and it echoes through the silent auditorium. He’s alone on the stage, the footprints of Abel all around him, the memory of their dance lingering, but he won’t be resurrected. Murder cannot mended. Abel is irreparably dead, and Cain will have to live with that knowledge, forever damned.

He looks up, still gripping his hair. Looks defiant. Proud, even.

_So, then. This is who I am._

The stage is overtaken by darkness.

* 

The applause still rings in Armitage’s ears as he walks away. It keeps ringing through the rest of the day, makes him swell with pride on Kylo’s behalf. Kylo is making amends with his family under Finn’s guidance, and there will be a grand reveal for Rey’s new room, and a little party which Kylo and Dopheld will be responsible for catering.

Armitage is missing out on all that: he and Thanisson are scheduled for an interview on Peavey, from first impressions to final solution, and it involves multiple wardrobe changes to make it look like they weren’t filmed on the same day.

“Amilyn has elevated cockblocking to an art form,” Armitage tells Rose as he shrugs on an ombré coat.

“You’ll have plenty of time to live your life after we’re done shooting,” Rose says, not even looking away from the footage she’s double-checking.

“I’ll have a night.”

Rose meets his gaze. “Make the most of it.”

It’s sarcasm, not sisterly advice, but Armitage takes it as such. They wrap up early, but he still decides to skip the party, and heads back to the hotel to get ready. Kylo and him had set up a tentative time frame: ten thirty had sounded reasonable. He has some time to kill until then.

While he runs a fragrant bath, he stands in front of the floor-length mirror and pretends undressing just for Kylo. It reminds him of practicing how to be seductive in his teenage years, the tentative mirror-checks of his early twenties. He’s the adult he always wanted to be now; he’s exactly where he wanted to be, and the rest is just noise: fuck that, he’s doing reality TV, fuck everyday anxieties, fuck could-have-beens. He poses like the fierce gay their viewers probably want to see, letting the coat slip from slender shoulders, looking up from behind long, pale lashes. Too bad for them: this show of confidence is reserved for Kylo.

He feels like he’s glowing as he powerwalks to the bath, throws his hands up and with a twirl, sits down on the tub’s edge just to have a cute little pinup moment and dip his feet into the water, splashing water everywhere. He sinks in with a pleased sigh. Gives the bidet a meaningful look, _later_. Now, for a little pampering.

He deserves it.

*

The walk through the garden is like in his dream. He can feel the cold air curl around his shins, and he’s naked under his coat. The vampire’s home is empty, but the porchlight is lit. He’s expected. He feels luxurious and delicious, the smell of vanilla and honey following him, warm and reassuring. His asshole is slick with lube, and he’s definitely ruining the poor coat. 

He’s looking forward to ruining the sheets as well.

Renielle opens the door for him, which gives him pause; maybe the shooting isn’t over, maybe everybody is still here, they’ll stand around and laugh—but why would they? He’s here on a date, and he can trust Kylo to take care of even the worst possible scenario. He’s not in this alone.

“Hi, he’s upstairs,” Renielle says, steps away and lets him in. She makes no comment on his appearance, just heads to the living room. Armitage can hear the noise of television (horror, by the sounds of it) as he lingers a bit, gathering himself. Appreciating the moment.

Who never dreamt of walking up a mahogany staircase with a candle, just to slip into a room and sit on a hard, fat cock? It’s a dream—a rather specific fantasy—come true, so Armitage savours the steps he takes, how the wood creaks under his knee-high boots. The faux fur of the coat is a comfort.

He stops by Kylo’s door, heart hammering in his chest. This is it. He’s about to be involved in debauchery. Something in him insists that things like this are too good to have, but that’s bollocks. Kylo and him _made_ it good; it will work, because they want it to work, because they planned for it, because they wanted to give this night to each other. Share the pleasure.

He knocks on the door, and lets himself in after a brief moment.

“By all means, barge in,” Kylo says from the bed. “You’re early.”

“You’re gorgeous,” Armitage says. Kylo is leaning against the canopy bed’s cushioned headboard, wearing a black silk robe, hair wet from the shower (and Armitage will have to thank Thanisson for that undercut again, it makes Kylo’s jawline look _exquisite_ ).

“I don’t wear the leg for bed,” Kylo warns. “That’s okay?”

Armitage shrugs and nods. Kylo relaxes somewhat, an easy smile playing on his lips.

“Look at you,” he says, deep and soft. Armitage turns the key in the lock. “It’s been a day,” Kylo comments.

Armitage looks at him over his shoulder. “Tired?”

“ _Exhausted_.”

 “It’s alright. We can just talk until you fall asleep.”

Kylo scoffs. “That’s sweet, but your butt is right _here_ , I’m not missing out on this opportunity. C’mere, pretty. Are you even wearing anything underneath that coat?”

“There was no point.”

“Fuck.”

Armitage feels like he’s going to be eaten alive. Kylo watches him with hungry eyes, a lazy hand slipping into his lap, groping his cock through the silk. Armitage can’t look away. He starts walking towards the bed.

“How was your day?” Kylo asks.

“Kept waiting for this. Seeing you on that stage, I just—” The mattress dips under his weight. He sits by Kylo’s side, watches him touch himself, and it’s just like their phone calls: intimate, familiar—but the thrill of newness is there, the excitement that this, right now, is happening.

That anything could happen.

“Liked seeing me?” Kylo asks, sinking his fingers into Armitage’s hair. Armitage dips his head down; Kylo leans in for a kiss, and lets out a happy little grunt when Armitage aims for his lap instead. The position is somewhat awkward, but he’s always been flexible, and he just wants to put his mouth on Kylo right now. He shifts a little so he’s kneeling up by Kylo’s side as he parts the robe, reveals Kylo’s half-hard cock, the remainder of his right thigh.

“I never want to look away,” he says, licks at the tip as his hands slip between Kylo’s legs. “Is this okay?”

“Fuck yeah.”

Armitage makes him open them further. “Oh,” he whispers. “You lubed up as well.”

“You never know what the night brings.”

“Indeed.” He licks at Kylo’s cockhead again, puts his thumb over his hole. Feels Kylo relax, pushes the tip in, just slightly. “Okay?”

“More.”

“Let me undress.” 

“You said you were—”

“I have boots on.”

“I thought they were part of the ensemble,” Kylo observes as Armitage sits back on his heels, shrugs off the coat and begins to work the boots off. “Holy shit,” Kylo says.

“What?”

“How you just—went for it, and like. You’re here. You’re in my bed. You’re naked. You have a beautiful cock. I like them chubby, you know. Like yours.”

“Well, I love them big and meaty.” Armitage grasps Kylo’s cock in his left as his right hand works on the boots’ zipper. Twists the shaft, making Kylo gasp. “You’ll do nicely.”

“It’s just—that every part of you is perfect, you know.” 

“I’m not surprised,” Armitage says as he lets go of Kylo’s cock. “Apparently, we were made for each other.”

He can feel his face flush, but plays nonchalant as he kicks the boots off, crawls over the pile of his coat and takes his place between Kylo’s thighs, on all fours. Makes sure to push his arse out as he bows his head, licks up at Kylo’s length. He takes him into his mouth, and moans with pleasure. Finally: there’s the taste, the weight of it, there’s Kylo, Kylo is here.

“I never thought you would be hot,” Kylo says. “Fashion designers rarely are.”

Armitage pulls up just to say, “Yves Saint Laurent was a proper twink.”

“See? You’re not _supposed_ to be funny.”

“So you had a lot of prejudice before meeting me.”

“Maybe so. Then I understood.” Kylo strokes his chin, lovingly, guides him back to his cock, slides down his throat. Armitage moans around it. “We are peculiar artists, you and I,” Kylo goes on, his voice dreamy, almost sing-song as he starts fucking Armitage’s throat. “We don’t have the luxury of words. We had to find different means to speak, and created narratives that cannot be translated back to speech. I always loved your _brand_. I didn’t quite get it until I met you, though. And you were even right about the thrift store.”

Armitage gives him a curious look.

“Oh, yes, I’m admitting it,” Kylo says, strokes his hair. Armitage arches into his touch, Kylo’s cock slipping out of his mouth and hitting his chin. Armitage rubs his face over it.

“Elaborate,” he whispers before swallowing it down again. Kylo curses, reaches for the belt of his robe.

“Medical bills,” he says while undressing completely. “Gotta—sell some of my stuff, save up some money, I need to buy plane tickets as well, you know—”

Armitage looks up at him again, arches a brow, quizzical.

“My boyfriend lives in New York,” Kylo says. “Can I call you—?”

Armitage surges up to kiss him. Kylo kisses messily: hot tongue, spit, chasing the taste of himself on Armitage’s lips. 

“I really want you to fuck me,” Armitage tells him. “Can you do that for me?”

“For my boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

Kylo spreads his thighs in invitation. Armitage feels his heart leap, grins as he climbs over Kylo’s lap, grabs the headboard to support himself. He’s face-to-face with Kylo. He presses his forehead to Kylo’s as he sinks down on his dick. They gasp at the same time, breaths mingled, and Armitage has to kiss him again.

Kylo’s cock stretches his rim, fills him entirely, and he takes it all in, pushing up and against him as he starts riding it.

“Fucking hell,” Kylo says against his lips, pulls back a bit. “How do you have so much energy left?”

“I did not put on a dance show.”

“Fair enough. Oh fuck, you’re—”

Armitage rubs their noses together. Takes the chance to nip at the tip. “Slower?”

“No, I—fuck. So you’re good at it, huh?”

“I’m a perfectionist.” With that, he licks at Kylo’s nose.

“You’re a menace,” Kylo mutters. Splays his hand over Armitage’s arse, kneads at it. Armitage relaxes into the sensation, buries his face into the crook of Kylo’s shoulder. Up and down, back and forward, he moves like the waves of the sea, lulling himself as Kylo plays with his ass.

Then Kylo starts moving as well.

Armitage’s eyes widen. His mouth drops open, but no sound comes.

Kylo lifts him up by his bum, drops him back down onto his cock, twists his own hips in a way that drives Armitage insane, then hauls him up again, supporting his weight as he ruts inside of him.

So this is it. Sex was nice. Now they’re dancing. 

Armitage is not used to the feeling of ecstasy, but he’s pretty sure that’s what he’s experiencing as Kylo pushes him back on the bed once they’re both panting and slick with sweat, climbs over him and dips his cock back in, following a rhythm Armitage can hear in the thudding in his ears. His vision blacks out; there’s a pulse, and his knees are hooked over Kylo’s shoulder who’s kneeling up, grabbing the bedpost. He thrusts inside, hips swaying.

Armitage can feel his own cock slamming to his belly wetly, bobbing at each new push. He feels like he’s going to explode with pleasure, and just when it would become unbearable Kylo yanks him up higher, bows his head and takes his cock into his mouth, while Armitage is—he’s pretty sure he’s doing a shoulder stand.

At one point, his cock is inside Kylo, who’s impossibly tight around him, clenching and unclenching in a pulsing rhythm, his fingers sliding into Armitage’s used, puffy hole.

There’s a hand clawing at his back, scratching the trembling flesh. Sharp teeth sinking into his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut, gasps.

He’s lost count of his orgasms. They don’t seem to particularly matter, when bliss overwhelms his senses like this, when a dry orgasm hits and he’s screaming into the pillow, impaled on Kylo’s cock, which is fucking his come back inside him.

His toes curl as pleasure rocks through his body. The silky cover slips. He bends down, forehead pressed into the mattress as Kylo laps at his ass.

He clings to Kylo as they roll around and his cock slips into Kylo again, who throws his head back, throat bared. Armitage takes a bite of his Adam’s apple.

Kylo is tasting his nipples. Armitage is massaging his prostate, fingers slick with his own cooling come.

He’s fisting the sheets. Kylo is fisting him.

There’s light behind the windows. Armitage hears birdsong, but it might be just his ears ringing. The touch of the warm, wet towel is welcome, in any case: Kylo is scrubbing him down from head to toe while Armitage’s bleary eyes survey their surroundings. Pillows scattered on the floor. The sheets hanging down. His boots, his coat, Kylo’s robe. Tissues. An empty bottle of lube. A cockring. Oh yes, he remembers the cockring.

“You wanna shower?” Kylo offers. He sounds smug, the fucking tosser.

“Y’hs” is all Armitage manages.

Kylo gets his crutches, humming to himself. Gets out of bed. Armitage closes his eyes for a moment. Wakes up to a gentle nudge.

“Don’t fall asleep yet,” Kylo whispers, amused. 

“‘Mm awake,” Armitage mumbles, reaching for Kylo blindly. He manages to hug his hips. That’s good enough. He rests his head over his crotch, takes in his scent.

“You alright there?”

“Never better.”

He blinks, and then there’s water in his face. He’s standing in the spacious shower, with Kylo sitting on a bench.

“I think you fucked my brains out,” he announces.

Kylo fistbumps the air. “Score,” he mouths.

Armitage rolls his eyes at him. “Nerd. What are you doing tomorrow? Today.”

“Oh, you want to bring a nerd to a date?”

“I might consider it.” He reaches for a bottle of shower gel. It has an alarming green hue, and the zesty scent of mint and lime sobers him up.

“I’m down,” Kylo says, absently scrubbing his chest with a loofah sponge. There’s come all over his chest. On his chin. On his _ear_. “I have brunch with the fam tomorrow, though. Shouldn’t take long.”

“How did the group therapy with Finn go?”

“Warn your viewers not to wear headphones. Rey stood up for me when Luke started talking shit though. I’ll try to take her with me tomorrow. Sneak her in in a bag like a chihuahua or something.”

“Must be the new room,” Armitage guesses, and realizes he started using the shower gel as shampoo. Screw it. The scent is growing on him by the minute.

“Yeah, I bet,” Kylo grumbles. Armitage can’t help a smile at his tone, the resentful way he’s washing his armpits. “Phasma gave her a new door, so she doesn’t have to go through the living room, and she has her own kitchenette now and shit. Like, we don’t have to meet if she doesn’t want to. That’s some good preventative measures there, not gonna lie.”

“I’m expecting a fresh Rotten Tomatoes review for the team, then,” Armitage teases. Kylo looks at him quite seriously. The effect is slightly ruined by the come still drying on his face.

“You came into my life and the world never looked so bright,” he says. “You, like. Bring out the best in me.”

“‘You’ plural or singular?” Armitage asks, a bit choked up. Kylo chuckles as reaches for his hand, nuzzles his knuckles.

 

Say, it's more than one day  
That you'll be here beside me  
It's you and all of the things you do  
Then make it alright 

Things keep getting better  
Things keep getting better  
Things keep getting better  
Things keep getting better  
Better

**Author's Note:**

>  **Content warnings:** Kylo has lost his left leg and wears a prosthetic - no descriptions of injuries, but this might trigger memories of trauma | extreme amount of cigarettes and coffee | consensual feminization as part of a sexual fantasy | minor self-harm (hitting self with hard object) | off-screen drug use (weed as pain medication) | Kylo grabs Armitage’s chin during an argument; Armitage thinks nothing of it, but could be jarring | unprotected sex | consensually rough treatment of genitals | during sex, Kylo is unsure if Armitage is into him being pushy, and keeps being pushy to test it out — but consent is negotiated | also there are a lot of dicks slapping around | gun violence: Kylo shot at Han once; has a comedic framing in the fic (at least he didn’t stab him with a lightsaber, so there’s that) | passing mention of fisting, several mentions of rimming
> 
> A million thanks to Ktula for betaing and proofreading, and for bioticnerfherder for cheering me on!
> 
> [Retweet](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1107310988754370561) |[Reblog](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/183519599951/queer-eye-fashion-designer-armitage-hux-is-met)


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